What Once Was Lost
by aiulbones
Summary: At 26, Dean was ready to graduate from the Academy, bond to an angel, and hunt down some demons. But, being Dean Winchester, nothing could ever go the way he planned.
1. In Which Someone Screwed Up

Today had to be the best day of Dean Winchester's life. Or so he thought as he leered at the pretty red-haired angel that had been pointed out to him as Anna Milton. She had pale skin, wide green eyes, and gorgeous copper wings that swept arcs of brilliant color behind her back. He could just imagine running his hands down the pinions, burying his fingers in the downy-

"Dean!" Jo hissed, giving him a hard jab in the ribs to emphasize her point. "Pay attention." He rolled his eyes but turned his eyes back to the stage. Usually Jo was a sassy smart-ass who didn't take shit from anybody, but shove her in uniform and she turned into some human incarnation of the training manual, complete with bolded and highlighted threats of disciplinary action. It made sense considering her mother was South's deputy commissioner. Ellen was a terrifying presence in general.

Rufus was up on the stage giving the same speech he gave every year about the alliance between hunter and guardian, the responsibility charge and angel had to each other, the history of their pact to fight against the demonic hordes. In his head, he'd long replaced the old geezer's face with a sock puppet and his voice with the squawking adult blather from Charlie Brown.

He didn't tune back in until Bobby took his place by the podium, assignment list laid out in front of him. There were six graduates this year. Last year there'd only been five angels assigned to South but a new angel just got transferred from Central, Balthazar something. Ash was first, partnered with Rachel, the severe blond. She wasn't the worst of the bunch but she sure as hell wasn't the best either. From what they'd heard she was a hardass, stickler for the rules. It'll be an interesting partnering as Ash had a penchant for breaking every rule he came across.

They both walked to the center of the room where a table had been laid out with scalpels and bandages. The plastic had been carved out to fit what essentially looked like a toilet bowl into a center. A biological materials disposal bag dangled from the bottom.

Two days ago they'd all gotten standard blood panels to make sure no one was going to give their angel some horrifying human disease, not that it would do much, and vice versa, so it was with as little trepidation as possible that Ash and Rachel cut small slits along the pads of their thumbs and pressed the cuts together. There was a brief flash of light and it was over.

Dean scratched at the scar on his shoulder as he waited for the other four graduates to go through their own little ceremonial blood-bonding. It was a nervous habit he'd had since he was kid. They told him he got the smattering of spots when their house burned down when he was four, but he didn't remember much of the night before his father had bundled him and Sammy into the back of an ambulance that took them to the hospital where he found out his mother wouldn't be with them anymore.

The sick bastard that burned down their house was part of the reason he'd joined the force in the first place.

"Dean Winchester and Anna Milton."

Dean took a deep breath and walked past the five empty seats to his left. Having a last name that began with a "W" could be both a blessing and a curse. On the one hand he got to sit at the back of the classrooms in high school. On the other he had to wait for fucking ever whenever there was a ceremony or graduation or whatever.

Bobby shook his hand, smiling broadly at him as he walked onto the stage.

"I'm proud of you, boy," the gruff old man barked out, giving him a hearty slap on the back as well. Bobby had become somewhat of a surrogate father after John had died on the job a couple years back. That was the other reason he'd joined the force.

Anna was looking at him thoughtfully, small smile on her face that brightened her features as he moved to the table. He shot her a cheeky grin that hopefully covered up his sweaty palms and shaky nerves. The cut stung a little and he watched in satisfaction as a line of blood welled up from his thumb.

He stretched his hand out over the table, mirroring Anna and he braced himself as their thumbs touched. Her hand was warm, though they only touched in the one place. The air around their hands grew steadily hotter and he waited for the flash of light that would soon follow.

Except it didn't.

Dean frowned at his thumb as Anna pulled away, puzzled look wrinkling her brow.

"Uh," was his succinct observation. They hadn't ever covered this. The bonding always worked. It was simple. It was absolute. There shouldn't be any complications. Except there he was, Dean Winchester, Complication, standing at the center of the stage looking like an idiot because apparently even infallible angel bonds didn't want him.

Everyone was whispering now. Anna looked just as confused as he felt, but she offered him a small smile and picked up her scalpel again. Understanding immediately, Dean cut a large gash at the base of his palm so that the blood dribbled down his wrist. This time there was no tentative touch. They jammed their hands together and waited.

"Fuck," Dean spat out when nothing happened for another ten seconds. The cut was starting to throb, stinging with the invasion of foreign blood. He pulled his hand away and grabbed one of the gauze pads, pressing it angrily to his palm. Why did shit like this always happen to him?

When he looked up again, Rachel was herding Anna off the stage while Bobby and Rufus were conferring in hushed tones.

"Dean," someone called him from behind. It was Ellen, beckoning him to the exit.

"We'll figure this out," Bobby told him as he passed.

"Yea, of course," Dean shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Otherwise I'd have to get a desk monkey job with you, wouldn't I?"

"Get out of here, idjit," Bobby huffed before turning back to Rufus who had pulled his laptop out from inside the podium.

Dean hopped down the two steps and left the conference room, following Ellen back to her office.

"Alright Winchester. Knew the first time your daddy brought you to the station you were gonna be trouble. Didn't know it would be this much, though."

"Sorry for the inconvenience, Ellen," he joked, but apparently he hadn't been able to hide his hurt as well as he'd thought.

"Dean," she sighed as she sat down behind her blocky steel desk. "This isn't your fault. You know that right?"

Dean shrugged and didn't look at her, instead fiddling with the ring puzzles lining her desk. "Never said it was. I'm in no rush to take credit for someone else's fuck-up. You got any idea what this is?"

Ellen sighed. "No clue. Never heard of this happening before. Usually its just slice, slice, touch and you get yourself a soul-grace bonding. Might be something up with Anna. She's got six charges already, might be she's overloaded."

"Yea, maybe," Dean said. Except he knew it was utter bullshit. Rachel had thirty-seven charges. Some guy over at central had forty-two. Anna wasn't the most powerful angel but she should have been able to handle twenty charges easily. But Ellen was trying to cheer him up, so he let her, especially when she started griping about how Jo and Inias were going to give her the biggest headache she'd had since Jo had started teething. Which led into a story about how Jo had bitten the first boy to ever have a crush on her. That one brought an actual laugh out of Dean's throat.

So when Bobby and Rufus showed up, his mood had room to fall again.

"We talked to Michael," Rufus said.

Dean swallowed. Michael was the big boss, head of the angel side of the FBI's Hunter Angel Squad. He only got involved when things were really good and could be used for positive publicity or when things were really fucked up and had to be handled carefully. Dean got one guess as to which it was.

"He told us there's really only two possibilities for a failed bonding. The first is that Dean is a demon," Bobby said.

"I'm not a demon!" Dean snarled defensively.

Bobby rolled his eyes.

"Calm your tits, boy," Rufus commanded. The training officer called everyone boy, even the girls.

"We know that, you idjit. If you were a demon the angels would have burned you out as soon as they laid eyes on your scrawny ass."

"Oh," Dean mumbled, settling back down. "So what's the other possibility?"

Bobby fixed him with a hard look. "You're already bonded to another angel."

"You bonded to some angel in your off-time?" Ellen demanded.

"What? Of course not! There's got to be another reason, Bobby. Michael sure about this?"

"Positive."

"You sure about this, Dean? Maybe you did it accidentally?" Ellen was offering him an out.

"Well I think I'd have noticed if I'd gotten myself a special feathery friend on the side somewhere. I swear, Ellen. I ain't got myself a bond."

Rufus, Bobby, and Ellen each fixed him with their own special look of disbelief. For Rufus it was an angry glare, like he was about to rip your ears off with his mind. For Bobby it was a squinty scowl, like you were five and had just lied about knocking over the lamp. For Ellen it was a single raised eyebrow, and fuck if that single eyebrow wasn't scarier than the glare and the scowl put together.

Finally, Ellen spoke up. "We'll see about that."


	2. After Castiel Kills A Ghost

The ghost burned out within the darkening wood with an ear-piercing shriek that would have rent through any human eardrum. Except Castiel wasn't human. He was an angel. Or he was almost an angel.

Castiel grimaced at the pile of ash at his feet and pulled out the phone from his trench coat pocket. He scrolled through a few screens before ticking off the box for "Haunting. Hartington, Iowa. Class 2." His eye twitched at the class rating. He was an angel. He should be handling Class 4 or above. Instead he was stuck doing the jobs that unbonded Hunters usually took.

Perhaps he should be grateful that he had even that. His powers were getting better, he told himself each morning as he struggled through the exercises that most high schoolers had mastered. At least they were letting him in the field now. His first year as a graduate had been spent at a desk, helping the other, proper, guardians with their research and paperwork.

He excelled at research. While he was pretty sure his grace trainers had only passed him out of pity, he'd aced every other portion of testing. Languages, tactics, programming, and a dozen other subjects crowded his brain. He'd be proud if only he could do anything with it. He practically had to beg Michael to give him his own assignments. He could still fly. He could still heal, if not as fast as the other angels. And there was enough grace in him to burn out a ghost or two.

The haunting of Hartington, Iowa had been relatively easy. The woman had only died recently, so her ghost had little time to learn anything more than materializing and scaring the couple who had been walking in the woods. She had let go of this plane of existence with little struggle. Castiel said a silent prayer for her deliverance.

Two muffled beeps alerted him of a new message.

_Charge is a hot brunette._ There was a picture of a smiling girl in profile underneath, chocolate brown skin, dark wide eyes.

Castiel rolled his eyes. Of course Balthazar would only consider the physical appearance of his charges. There wasn't even a name attached to 'hot brunette.'_ If you get arrested for sexual harassment, I am not bailing you out._

_Oh Cassy, unlike you, I have what they call sex appeal. I don't need to resort to harassment._

Castiel was about to send back another admonishment when a new text came from Balthazar.

_Oh my. Seems things are rather interesting around here. Failed bonding._

Castiel squinted at the last two words, trying to parse some meaning out of them. No one failed a bonding.

_What?_

_Angel and human go up on stage bloody finger and then nothing._

_Is that even possible?_

A squirrel darted out from the underbrush, lean and alert. It stared blankly at the angel for a moment before skittering away at the vibration of the phone.

_An hour ago I would have said no, but apparently the answer is yes._

_That is very strange._

_Thank you for stating the obvious, feather-brains._

Castiel fought the urge to stick his tongue out at his own phone. Balthazar, as infuriating as he could be, had been his best friend since he had started school when he was six, a year later than most. It was one of the first signs that he was different, that he was weak. For one year, he had been sick. Angels only became ill when injured or severely depleted. He had been neither, and yet he'd been unable to get out of bed or still the quaking of his wings from the pain. It had faded, over the course of months, to a dull ache that sat just below his ribs.

They'd gone through school together and while there, Balthazar had basically been his only friend. No one else wanted anything to do with the no-talent freak who could barely heal himself, much less a human.

Balthazar, though, had stuck with him, charming their way out of the fights that he could, running their way out of the fights that he could not. He'd asked him why once and Balthazar had just given him a confused look and said, "Well at least you're interesting."

_Assbutt._ He could come up with a better retort but that was a classic.

_Damn, looks like I'm going to strike out on this one. Think Tammy has a little crush on one of the other rookies._

_Is Tammy the name of your charge?_

_Tamara. I get the charges with the best names._

_How is Pamela?_ Balthazar's first charge was the reason he'd transferred from Central in Kansas to South in Texas. There was some scandal involving some ill-conceived photographs that had scandalized Commissioner Walker so much that he couldn't even look at Balthazar without foaming at the mouth. They couldn't, of course, let any angels go. They were too few and far between, so he'd been removed to somewhere that Walker would never have to deal with the scruffy blond angel except through angry emails.

_The usual. Flirting with everything that moves. Gotta love the girl no matter how much of a pain in the ass that camera of hers is._

_You have five more stations to escape to should you get kicked out of South._

_You are a riot, Cassy._

_It was merely a cautionary reminder._

_gtg. roeitnatino sttairng._

Castiel snorted at the message. Balthazar always overwhelmed auto-correct when in a rush.

He scrolled back to the assignments page. There were two more hauntings and a possible werewolf sighting. He tabbed over to the higher level assignments, just out of curiosity. Level three had a vampire nest. Level four had the demons. Level five was empty, but then again, level five was always empty. Only something big would end up at level five, and then it was all hands on deck, even hands like Castiel's. He half hoped for the day he'd be called to fulfill such a duty and he half dreaded his inevitable failure of everyone who would rely on him on such a day.

For now, though, he had two hauntings and a werewolf.


	3. Where Michael Exercises Self Control

Dean paced around the waiting room. A few of the other occupants threw irritated glares in his direction, but he was too worked up to pay them any mind. After a month of switching between tagging along with Jo or Ash and traffic cop rotations, he had finally gotten an appointment with Michael.

They didn't let him go on any real cases. Said it was a liability, too risky to let a free agent out there. He had argued that while he couldn't kill the demons without an angel, he'd still be able to handle the lower level stuff. Ghosts and werewolves and shit. Except no. Apparently there was already an angel taking care of the level 1 and 2 assignments for South, Central, and North.

Part of him had considered just transferring to one of the east or west coast bases if it got him a case. If he went to Northwest he'd only be an hour from Sammy at Stanford. Except Bobby and Ellen and Jo were here and they were practically family.

It also didn't help that when he'd brought it up with Sam, the little twerp had balked and started rambling about how he would only be at Stanford for another two years and that Dean would hate the weather up there and how everything was so much more expensive in California. Dean had rolled his eyes. What he really heard was that Sam wanted his independence and that meant not seeing his big brother every weekend.

So here he was aggravating the folks waiting to see the executives of the sixth floor at Central.

"Dean Winchester," the little blond secretary called from her desk. "Michael will see you now."

He gave her a nod and headed around the corner to the last door at the end of the short corridor. Michael's office was huge. Larger than his bedroom huge. He could probably live in this office. There was even a private bathroom tucked in one corner away from the massive windows that looked out onto the rolling fields of half-grown wheat.

"Welcome back to Kansas, Mr. Winchester," Michael said in way of greeting.

"Excuse me?" He had never been to Central before. This was some sort of horrid misquote from Oz or had Michael mistaken him for someone else. Someone else named Mr. Winchester. Right.

"Your file states that you used to live here? Just outside this base, in fact," Michael raised one shapely eyebrow at him. Geez, did the guy have his eyebrows tweezed? Did angels even do that sort of thing or could they just mojo their body hair into the whatever pattern they wanted? The thought of Michael with a monkey tail brought a grin to his face.

"Mr. Winchester?"

Oh, right. Kansas. "Uh, yea. I was really little though. Moved when I was four."

"Ah yes. After the fire that killed your mother."

Dean ground his teeth together. What right had this guy, this utter stranger, to dredge up tragedies from his past that, things that only a few of his closest friends even knew about?

"My condolences."

"Right. So are we going to talk about Kansas or are we going to figure out which angel did his freaky business on me in my sleep?" That had become his working theory. How else could he bond with a freaking angel without knowing?

"It is not possible for an angel to form a bond without your consent." Michael rested clasped his hands together on his desk, resting his elbows at the edge.

With the one semi-plausible, almost-sane explanation shattered with nothing more than a calm sentence, Dean slumped back onto his heels. While there was a slim possibility that at some point in his rather bloody life, he had somehow managed to get some of it into an equally bloody angel, there was little chance that he would _agree_ to such a thing and not remember.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Winchester," Michael said, gesturing to one of the chairs set across from him at his desk.

Dean crossed over the massive office and settled in. The chair was surprisingly uncomfortable for all its ergonomic shape and big blue cushions.

"As I told Commissioner Singer, I will check your soul to see if there has been a bond formed and, possibly, who you are bonded with."

Dean nodded. Bobby had gone over this with him. Touching a human's soul was a delicate process, usually only done by the bonded guardian. Only a few of the most powerful angels could go into the soul of someone they weren't bonded to without causing severe damage. The fact that Dean was already bonded with another angel (or so they thought) would, they claimed, help alleviate any pain.

"Give me your hands," Michael said, reaching out his own across the desk. Part of him balked instinctively a rude comment defending his masculinity barely held at the tip of his tongue. But he really needed to figure this out, hand-holding girliness be damned.

Once his palms were resting firmly against the angel's, Michael warned him, "Either you will feel nothing or you will feel excruciating pain."

Yea, that was helpful. Dean bit back any sarcastic remarks and just nodded. "I'm ready."

Dean thanked the heavens that there was no pain. There was just the extreme awkwardness of staring at a guy who was literally looking into your soul. He sincerely, vigorously, violently hoped Michael stayed out of the red light district in there.

Before he knew it, Michael was shaking his hands loose and blinking his eyes, large white wings fluttering in agitation.

"Well this is highly unusual."

"Ok, so it was just the one time. And they were really hot. I mean like, smoking. So I couldn't really say no."

"Dean, I am not speaking of your sexual deviations." Michael sounded vaguely perturbed.

"Oh." Dean felt the heat rushing to his face. "Uh, so what were you talking about?"

"It seems that you are not only bonded to an angel, but you have formed a true bond."

"What? The other bonds are fake bonds?" Dean scowled.

"Bond are directional. The bond usually formed by hunter-guardians are from the human to the angel. Blood means little to an angel, but it is the life of a human. When you share blood with an angel, you are, in essence, letting them touch a piece of your soul. However, to angels, a bond, or true bond, is when the angels share grace."

"So, what? I've got a piece of some angel's grace inside me?"

"Yes," Michael said coolly, though his brow creased. "It is strange, however. The bond is very weak, indicating that it is very old and has not been replenished in a while. It is possible, that whatever angel bonded with you has attempted to break the bond."

"Ok, so break it. Make them take their grace thingie back," Dean suggested.

If Michael wasn't so damned professional, Dean was pretty sure there would be some epic eye rolling going on there. Instead the angel said slowly, like he was some child, "It is not so easy, Dean. Bonds are not reversible."

Dean nodded. He knew that. It was one of the first things they told you in hunter training. Once you had an angel, you couldn't unhave them. Doesn't mean he wanted this one.

"Alright, so now what happens? Can we find this guy?" Dean held onto tentative hope that he could simply find the angel, chew him (or her) out, and get on his merry working way with whatever dick did this to him.

"In theory, yes. I have memorized the grace markers on your soul and I will attempt to match them to the angel it belongs to. However, your situation is rather unique. The grace bond is very old, large but extremely weak. One or both of you have attempted to sever it. I do not know what such a thing would do to an angel. It may have driven them mad."

"Bonding can do that?" Dean frowned. They'd never mentioned anything like this in any of the angel courses at the academy.

"This is one of the fundamental differences between the guardian bond and a true bond. While humans can barely feel their own souls, angels are intimately tuned in to their grace. It is one of the reasons why we do not use grace bonds with humans. Should a human be absent from a piece of their soul for an extended period of time, they will maybe feel an itch, like they have forgotten something at home but can't remember what. For an angel, being absent from a piece of their grace would be akin to losing an arm."

Dean sucked in a sharp breath. He'd seen some of the guys his dad had served with during the war. A few had been missing an arm or a leg. Some of them would joke about it. They'd gotten used to it, except occasionally he'd catch them reaching to scratch the air where their arm was, or to rub the pant leg where a leg should have been, and they'd wince. There was one guy, Tony, who would cry all the time, babbling about how his legs hurt, so much, like a fire was eating them out from the inside. Except Tony had no legs. "So why the hell would this angel stay away and keep this a secret?"

"That I can not answer you," Michael grimaced. "It will take me some time to find this angel. Your hotel room has been reserved for the next few days. I will call you when I have found them."

"How long?" There were only a few thousand angels, but they were scattered across the globe.

"A week at most. My schedule is rather constricted, but I shall endeavor to make this as quick as possible. This angel has waited long enough."

Dean nodded. That was a lot faster than he'd expected. A week back in Kansas. Oddly, it felt like home.


	4. When Dean Goes Back to the Large Office

"Michael?" Castiel called out as he knocked on the great oaken door. It was after hours and he'd just returned from a lone werewolf hunt that turned out to be a pack. It should have been labeled level three and he should have called in someone else, but there had been a little girl backed into a corner and even with the speed of flight, it might have been too late for a Team to make it. He'd managed to kill two of the weres and hold the rest of them off long enough for the kid to get away. Of course now his arms and chest were bandaged and he'd actually had to walk up to the office.

Long years of ridicule had given him a thick skin, but he was still glad that the building was mostly empty as he'd ridden the elevator to the sixth floor like a human.

"Come in."

He entered the spacious office and looked around. Michael was sitting behind his desk, as usual, stern look on his face, wings folded stiffly at his back. There was someone else in the room, a hunter by the look of his dark blue uniform.

The human turned and frowned at him as he came into the room. He answered the expression in kind. When Michael had called him in for a meeting two days ago he had not elaborated on what the purpose was, but being condescended to by a stranger was not what he had hoped for.

"You're the angel?" the man asked, incredulous.

Castiel stepped further into the room, wings coming through the door in an aggressive flare, pointed slightly downward. Whoever this man was he seemed to promise only trouble. He could only hope it wasn't his replacement. All the angels worked in HA Squads. Never before had they let one go, but never before had they had an angel like Castiel. "Michael, what is going on?"

Michael didn't answer but gestured for him to take a seat.

"Castiel, this is Dean Winchester."

Castiel glanced at the human seated next to him. "I see. It's nice to meet you Mr. Winchester," he tried slowly. He wasn't sure what was expected of him.

Michael looked between the two of them expectantly.

"Dean," the human said eventually, angry frown still on his face, extending a hand. Castiel shook it awkwardly with his good arm. When he turned back to Michael, his boss was frowning at them.

"Castiel, Dean here holds a piece of an angel's grace." His eyes flew wide as he turned to take a good look at the man. True bonds were rare, even more so between an angel and a human. The man looked like an ordinary human, although with his wide green eyes and full lips he was a rather attractive one. There was no indication that he was an angel's bonded. Dean fidgeted under his scrutiny but glared right back at him.

"That is highly unusual," Castiel said. He still had no idea what this had to do with him. If there was a problem with a bond, they would ask a healer, or at least an angel with full powers.

"It is very faint, faded away, but I believe the grace is yours."

"What?" he said as he whipped back around to look at the other angel. He could not have heard that correctly. Perhaps this was an elaborate hoax. Maybe Gabriel had finally convinced Michael to join his one-angel prank war.

Except Michael's face was calm and stern. "Castiel, did you bond with this human?"

"No! Of course not. I am not even capable of seeing souls." He could faintly remembered, when he had been very little, seeing souls, or at least he had impressions of bright glowing things different from an angel's grace. But he hadn't been able to since he was sick.

"Wait. You can't heal. You can't see souls. Can you even fly with those things?" Dean said, gesturing at his wings.

"Yes," he snapped back. "And I am still far more powerful than you will ever be."

"Castiel, there is something I would like you to try," Michael said calmly, ignoring their little spat. "Dean, you should have a mark somewhere, a scar of sorts."

Dean stopped glaring at him long enough to raise an eyebrow at Michael. "You're going to have to be more specific than 'a scar,' Mike."

"It should be in the shape of a handprint, like a burn mark that never fully healed."

Castiel nearly sighed in relief when Dean snorted and said, "Sorry, Mike. All I've got are your standard blobs and slashes." To think that an angel had subjected themselves to a true bond with this rude, disrespectful man was disquieting.

Michael, however, did not waver. "It is possible that it has faded along with the power of the grace. Do you have any burn marks at all?"

Castiel watched the color drain out of Dean's face. "Yea." The man's voice was hoarse.

"Please reveal them," Michael requested, brokering no argument.

Except Dean didn't pick up on the command. "Why?" the hunter asked, eyes narrowed.

"It may be the only way to confirm the bond," Michael explained. When Dean still did not comply, he added, "If you wish to continue as a Hunter, you will need to reveal the mark."

A muscle twitched once in Dean's jaw before the man stood up and started unbuttoning his shirt. Next came a padded vest. Castiel was surprised the hunter wore the armor to a meeting. Under that was a fitted long-sleeve tee. When finally the man had tossed all three tops onto his chair, Castiel sucked in a breath. The entire left side of the hunter was covered in wrinkled white scar tissue. It spread over half his ribs and crept up one shoulder and down across his belly in a swath of hardened flesh. Castiel wondered how the man had even become a hunter, much less maintain a robust physique with such an impairment.

"This enough burn mark for you?" Dean snarled at Michael.

Michael got up and circled the desk, coming to stand in front of the hunter. He ran one hand over the scarring, frowning at the tissue. It wasn't until he circled to the other side of the man that his expression brightened.

"Here," Michael said, pointing at three small spots on Dean's shoulder. It looked nothing like a handprint. "Castiel, place your hand over this spot."

He didn't expect anything to happen, so it was with relative nonchalance that the reached out to touch the three red blotches.

When his palm hit the shoulder, however, Dean screamed. And Castiel remembered.


	5. Except Sam Doesn't Remember Kansas

For a while there was the sweet safety of oblivion. Nothingness could hurt him. The dark empty spaces were no threat, but the thin line of brilliant flame extending into the distance was what terrified him. He shied away, turning his back to the fires, rushing headlong into the darkness. Except the heat followed him, always a few steps behind, making the skin of his left side prickle with remembered agony.

He couldn't let it reach him, not again. So he ran. He didn't know where he was going or where he was. All he knew was that he had to keep moving, to keep it away from himself. Keep it away from Sam.

"Sam," he cried out, and he felt a warm hand on his arm. Warm. Not hot, not the searing heat of fire. He opened his eyes and sad, worried puppy-dog eyes swam through his vision.

"Dean? Are you awake?" He would have sobbed or choked or something extremely unmanly if not for the oxygen mask plastered to his face. God, he'd missed that voice.

"Hold on, I'm going to get the doctor," Sam said, rushing from his side and the phantom flames seemed to burn hotter with his absence.

It'd been over ten years since he had that nightmare. The therapists had tried to make him talk about it, to remember the smell of his own burning flesh, the sound of his voice ripping out of his throat in unrestrained screams. He'd made it out somehow, though he doesn't remember any of it. The fire had also taken his mom, but he didn't remember that either. That night was just a hazy blur beyond the feeling of Sam curled up against him, shielded and safe. Strange that he'd suddenly be thinking of it now. It must be whatever drugs they've got him on or the annoying beep of the heart rate monitor, the acrid scent of cleaning agent on the sheets. Something.

When Sam came back, he had two people in tow, a man and a woman. No, an angel and a woman, an angel that, in fact, looked awfully familiar.

"Balthazar?" he croaked before remembering his face was still plastered with silicone. He removed the mask and asked again. "What are you doing here?"

"Cassie's a bit laid up but he probably wants updates on what the numbskull he bonded with is up to, although you haven't been very entertaining lately, just lying there and breathing."

Cassie? Oh. Castiel. Damn, he'd forgotten about that.

"Why'd he send you? Too busy shoving his grace in innocent bystanders to visit himself?" How could he have forgotten the mess he'd found himself in? And all because some angel he'd never met couldn't keep his hands to himself.

Balthazar suddenly straightened, losing the lax jaunt of his hips that seemed to be the permanent fix of his bones. "You dare belittle the sacrifice he has made for you?"

"I'm going to lose my job because of him!" Dean snarled, although he choked a bit at the end there, his ribs straining to fuel his words.

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Mr. Matthews," the woman said icily, holding up her clipboard like a police baton. "The patient requires rest, not your aggravation." Dean could have kissed her for the fury that flew across Balthazar's features before he stormed out the door, most likely to report to his 'Cassie.' Of course the angel had to have a girly nickname. Striking fear into the hearts of their enemies: Dean and Cassie.

"Mr. Winchester," the woman's voice called him back to his present state. "I'm your doctor, Missouri Moseley."

"So what's going on here, doc?"

"You had a heart attack, Mr. Winchester. You were effectively dead for forty-nine seconds before paramedics were able to restart your heart."

"Paramedics," he groaned. His bonded angel was right there and they'd had to fly in paramedics. Figures. "Alright, so why did I have a heart attack?"

"I can't tell you that, sugar. You're going to have to speak with one of the angels. I think it has something to do with their grace but," she shook her head. "That's above my paygrade. We'll run some test but there doesn't seem to be any permanent damage. You should be able to leave in two or three days. Do you have any questions?"

"Tons. For one, I want to know what the hell is going on with those angels."

She gave him a sympathetic look and hung the clipboard on the base of his bed. "Well, I think we all have a million questions about angels. Now don't try eating anything greasy or doing anything stupid and you should be fine."

"Thanks, doctor," Sam finally said from where he was standing by the door. Dr. Moseley nodded at him and left.

"Dean," Sam rushed to his bedside once they were alone. "What the hell is going on? Nobody will tell me anything! Does this have to do with the angel that bonded you?"

"Yea," Dean groaned, shifting against his pillow, trying to find a magical spot that would dissipate the pain in his neck. "You should have seen this guy, Sam. Can't heal, can't fly, had a broken arm when I met him. An angel, Sam, with a broken arm," he emphasized the sheer level of ridiculous that was. "And the kicker is that he doesn't seem to know what the hell is going on either. And look at this," Dean shoved up the sleeve of his hospital gown to reveal the scar.  
"What's that?" Sam frowned, reaching out but not touching the handprint.

"Symbol of out bond or some shit like that. Dude freaking mutilated me and doesn't even remember doing it."

"It's," Sam paused and looked like he was choking. "Cute," he finished, unable to contain a snigger.

"Cute?" Dean repeated with disdain. "I got a kid's freaking handprint burned into my arm and you think it's cute?"

"Yea, you're like Wishbone."

"Wishbone?" Dean grimaced in preparation for the sheer absurdity that was surely to come out of Sam's gigantic mouth.

"You know, the beagle with a paw print on his ear? Dresses up and acts out classical books?"

"Get out," Dean pointed at the door. "You are not my brother."

Naturally, Sam didn't move. "So what's going to happen?"

Dean sighed and thumped his head back down. "I've got no idea Sam. I need to talk to Michael or someone who knows what the hell is going on."

"Yea, okay. I'll go see what I can do. You get some rest, okay?"

"Right, Sam," Dean said with no intention of doing so, except his eyes seemed to be rebelling in their rush to close and his limbs cried mutiny when they refused to move and before he realized he'd lost the fight, he was unconscious.


	6. With Memories and a Bunch of People

_Author Notes: Put the dialogue in italics. Hopefully that makes it clearer as to what's going on._

* * *

For the first time in too long, Castiel could truly see, and so he was blinded.

For a moment he was whole, pieces of himself he hadn't even recognized as being missing slotting into place, negative space made solid. It was like finding a second lung after breathing for twenty-two years with only the one. He was complete, at ease, joyous. And just as it had before, it came crashing down around him.

It was worse than what happened when he was five.

Maybe it was because he was younger then, resilient, still able to heal the gap that he had torn in himself or maybe his Grace was simply not yet strong enough to recognize the level of damage that had been done to it.

And then the horror of what caused the severance dawned upon him. Dean had died. It was only for a moment, but it was like being split in half, rent down the center by a blunt cleaver.

Someone had flown him to the hospital. His own wings were useless, no better than rags, great feathery curtains that fell limply about his shoulders. They'd hooked him up to things, bags of fluid that did not drain, beeping machines that stayed silent.

_"How is he?"_

It had started here in Kansas. There was only one angel school in the Americas. There was one more in Italy, another small one in the mountains of Tibet. But by far the largest was in Kansas.

_"Not good. He was tearing at his own feathers, so we wrapped his hands in gauze, but now they're just molting on their own. His stats are all within the parameters you gave us, but he isn't responding. I'm sorry, we just don't have enough experience with angel illnesses to give you a proper assessment."_

The homes built around Central were spartan, two-story, unadorned boxes with a single slope for a roof, each identical to the next if not for the splashes of color some of the owners had added over the standard grey paint. Castiel's own home was unique only in that his neighbors to the east were a family of humans.

_"That is expected as there are no angel illnesses. I am uncertain as to what this is, but it is at the very least unique. You will continue to observe him, catalogue any changes in his status."_

There weren't any other children near his age living in his home. There had been Rachel, who was twelve years older, and Gabriel, who was thirty-six years older. They had been kind to him, raised him, but Rachel had school and Gabriel had his duties at Central, so Castiel had been left on his own most of the time. After all, the compound was safe and angel children are extremely resilient; there was no reason to worry. So Castiel had taken to spending his time in the tree growing outside his window, until one day, when he was four, another little boy had popped up on the other side of the tree.

_"Oh, Cassy. Can't leave you alone by yourself for one month before you manage to get yourself into something bloody idiotic. Dean Winchester? Really? You couldn't have picked someone, I don't know, smarter? Less of a dick? Just had to go for the pretty face. I never knew you were so shallow."_

The other boy was younger, barely older than a baby really, but he would mush his face against the window panes and make strange expressions. It might have been rude, but Castiel just found it fascinating. About a week after his discovery, a woman had appeared in the window frame. She'd smiled and waved at him before picking up the other boy and walking away.

_"Castiel, we're going to take the gauze off your hands. If you don't harm yourself, we'll leave them off, but if you do, we're going to have to restrain your arms."_

It was a week of flitting through the branches, making the other boy laugh and squeal with nothing more than a few easy somersaults that the boy's mother opened the window and invited him inside for cookies. Gabriel would sometimes have candy around the house, but that was the first time he'd ever really eaten anything. It was horrible.

_"Well looks like you two make quite the catatonic pair. Apparently Ken doll's not doing too hot either. Three words, rhymes with medically-induced stoma. I'll give you one guess. Come on, Cassy. One guess."_

The next day, the other boy had popped up in the window, angry look on his face as he yanked open the curtains. He pried his tiny fingers into the small gap at the bottom and mumbled something in frustration when the frame would not move. He'd left then, reappearing a minute later with his mother in tow. She opened the window for him and gestured Castiel inside once again. This time, Dean sat seriously at his little desk, and in front of him was a half-squashed slice of pie.

_"Um, hi. I'm Sam, Dean's brother. "_

He had not liked the pie either, but it seemed so important to the other boy that he'd forced a smile and finished the dessert.

_"Cassy's not in a very chatty mood right now so you're going to have to carry the conversation."_

Things went on like that for a year. He'd make his way across the branches to knock on the neighboring window. Dean would get Mary to let him inside and they'd play with Dean's toys, or go outside into the yard to build castles out of mud, or Dean would drag him to the kitchen and make him try all sorts of human foods, none of which particularly appealed to him. But then he'd made a horrible mistake.

_"Has Michael explained any of this to him yet?"_

Dean was constantly trying to get him to do new things, play T-ball, or watch movies, or, once, eat a worm. So he thought he'd reciprocate by teaching Dean how to climb. The day he chose to start his lessons, Mary was not there. Instead, Dean's dad was downstairs watching a game on tv. It was a warm spring day, so the window to Dean's room had been left open. Castiel had slipped over without Dean's dad noticing and lulled Dean onto the first few branches.

_"No. That would be 'pointless,' and the big boss has better things to do than talk to someone who can't talk back. Doesn't matter that he can probably hear everything going on. Can't you, Cassy?"_

Dean fell. And Castiel had been able to save him. His wings weren't strong enough yet for true flight, much less to carry the weight of another. Dean's dad had come outside, red in the face, screaming up into the tree. Dean was hurt and crying but Castiel had been scared, so he ran.

_"Seriously? I thought he was a bit cold but wow. Okay, so, um, Castiel. I need to ask you for something."_

He didn't see Dean for a long time after that. He'd watch sometimes, through his own window, but he didn't go back out to the tree. There was movement inside the other house, but the curtains were always drawn. Once, he saw a hand peek through the curtains before a dark shadow had drawn it away. He started following Rachel, sitting with her at the dinner table as she did her homework. She taught him a few simple words if she felt charitable and she shooed him outside if she did not.

_"Dean's not doing so great and we know it has something to do with the Grace bond, but we still aren't sure what. So um, one of the angels came up with an idea that might help you both."_

It was about a month later that he saw Dean again, and he was stunned. Dean's soul had always been pleasant, a warm yellow that pulsed green and blue. He hadn't been around many humans, just the occasional ones that came to give presentations at the school and Dean's family. Mary was a soft orange that sometimes bordered on pink, other times on gold. His dad was a deep blue. Not unpleasant but not nearly as bright as the rest of his family.

_"It was Gabriel's idea, really. The old fart actually managed to pull something good out of his arse this time."_

But this time, when Dean drew back the curtain just as the sun slips below the horizon, he was brilliant. And tucked in his arms was a spark, grass-green and sunset-red. Castiel couldn't help smiling as Dean held up the baby's hand, moving it in jerky arcs to imitate a wave. And he couldn't stop staring as Dean's soul lit up the space between them.

_"Since Dean has a bit of your Grace, it might help balance things a bit if, well, if you had a bit of his soul."_

It was a few weeks later when a knock came on his window pane. At first he'd thought it was just the branches of the tree grown too long, but the rhythm grew faster and hectic before he'd opened his curtains to see Dean's puffy red face. He gathered that his parents had been fighting, though he couldn't tell about what. All he knew was that Sam and Mary had gone somewhere else that night and Dean needed to be somewhere else as well. That night, Dean taught him how to hug.

_"Something is blocking the True Bond, so we're going to try to create an alternate pathway between the two of you. It won't fix anything but it might make things a little more bearable. Never thought you'd get your own Hunter this way, did you Cassy?"_

Mary and Dean's dad fought a lot over the next few months. Castiel didn't know much about it. All he knew was that it scared Dean enough that he'd sometimes edge his way across the branches to hide in Castiel's room. Other times, he'd chuck something across the ten foot gap, signalling that he couldn't leave Sam behind and that Castiel should sneak into what was now Sam's nursery. Dean had finally grown enough that he could open the window on his own.

_"Michael said you'd need to give consent, but it doesn't have to be verbal. So I know you can't talk right now, but we're going to perform the ceremony and if you consent, it should work, and if not, we'll have to think of something else. Please, Castiel, Dean needs this."_

And then came the night of the fire. He hadn't been asleep, because back then, Castiel had been just another angel child. He didn't need rest, not like he did now. So he was awake and alert when the ribbons of flame rippled across the house next door. Beyond the eerie glow of the fire, however, he could see the bright yellow and red and green that signified Dean and Sam, curled up somewhere upstairs. They weren't moving. And Castiel decided then, that this time, he wouldn't fail in saving Dean.

_"Alright, Cassy. Time to get a little bloody."_


	7. So There's Gabriel

He was supposed to be home a week ago. But then his stupid dick of a brain decided it needed to shut off, randomly, for a couple of hours a day. And it didn't have the plain human decency to do it in a quiet fashion. No, it had to twitch and jerk him about a little before slipping into oblivion. Missouri told him that it wasn't good for him to keep doing that. He got a little sarcastic and now he's to address her only as Dr. Moseley or Ma'am. Goddamned brain.

Oh, right, and he's in a coma now. Fan-friggin-tastic. Although the fact that he knows he's in a coma must mean that he isn't, at least not anymore. The wheels were spinning in his mind but the hamster isn't home.

And then someone's holding his freaking hand. First he gets some angel's freaky inner bits inside him somehow and now he can't even enjoy a coma without having his extremities groped. God, its probably Sam, the big girl. Holding his hand, pinching his elbow, stabbing his vein.

Shit.

"Whur?" Sure it's a muffled grunt but it's a manly, coherent muffled grunt.

"Dean?" That's definitely Sam's voice coming from his other side so the one with the inappropriate hand holding has got to be someone else. He really hopes it's Dr. Moseley. "He's waking up."

Suddenly the world came into existence outside of his head, the sharp hospital lights piercing through his flimsy eyelids. Fuzzy shapes dotted the room. Why the hell were there so many people here?

"What?" he tried again. It wasn't what he was trying to say but he could roll with it.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Winchester." It was Dr. Moseley after all at his right hand side. And there's Sam's giant form looming at his left. That leaves three unidentified blobs, all of whom were extremely large blobs. Except they weren't just wide, they were shifting in size, undulating smaller and larger because they weren't their bodies. They were wings. He had three angels in his room. Awesome.

And one of them was pushing around a cart of rags.

He wanted to go back to sleep.

"Dean, don't go back to sleep," Sam snapped, frowning with every ounce of his large puppy face.

"The matter is urgent." The closest blob sounded a lot like Michael. Dean blinked a few times and rubbed the grime out of his eyes so that he could confirm that yes, the head of his division was standing in his hospital room while he was wearing nothing but a backless paper gown. Good impressions.

He didn't recognize the second angel. If he could pick to words to describe him, they would be "short" and "smug."

The last angel was Balthazar and he wasn't pushing a cart of rags. He was pushing a wheelchair filled with tattered wings. Presumably beneath those wings was yet another angel. A doctor, an overgrown man-girl, and four angels walk into a hospital. His life was a bad setup for a cheesy joke.

"What?" he asked again. And this time he meant to.

"The piece of Grace within you has, for lack of a better word, reawakened," Michael supplied.

"That's um..." he started but couldn't find the right words to describe whatever that was. He knew what it should have been. It should have been terrifying. It should have had him pissing mad that it was getting worse instead of better. It should have scared the shit out of him that the stupid Grace was messing with his body. But he just swallowed and accepted it because some part of him that he couldn't understood thought that everything was just fine the way it was and there was no reason to panic.

That in itself started him panicking. "Ok, so what do we do? We can't take it out right? So can we, I don't know, put it back to sleep? Can you do that?"

"Not without killing Castiel," Balthazar snapped. The angel in the chair shifted and Dean caught a glimpse of dark hair. He gaped. That was Castiel with the ragged wings, entire patches of feathers missing, their natural sheen given way to dull tufts.

"So then what can we do?" Dean shot back. He didn't know why seeing the depressing state of the angel's wings makes him angrier than the thought of his own impending disability. He chalked it up to the fact that this was the angel who was supposed to protect him.

"So impatient," the unknown angel chortled.

"And who the fuck are you?"

The angel grinned and swept his wings in an elegant bow. "Gabriel. I'm, hmmm, I guess I'm the closest thing Cassy has to a dad."

"I thought God was your Father," Sam cut in.

"I don't know about you, but most fathers show up more than once every two hundred years," Gabriel said with a grin that did not move his stone cold eyes.

"Do not disparage the name of our Father," Michael answered swiftly.

"Right," Gabriel barked, rolling his eyes.

"Why the fuck are you here?" Dean scowled.

"It was my idea," the short angel shrugged. "And I wanted to see it through."

"What was your idea?" Dean narrowed his eyes. Dissension in the angelic ranks did nothing to ease the coil of unease that had begun to tighten as soon as the angels had started talking.

"Humans aren't meant to form True Bonds with angels," Michael said.

"But you said that it's happened before, right?" There was Sam, always trying to correct the angels on angel lore.

"Yes. The difference, however, between those Bonds and the one between your brother and Castiel is that they were not cut off. The Grace still lay connected to the angel, so it could be controlled by the angel. Castiel's Grace, however, seems to have completely separated from him."

"It's because I died," Dean grumbled.

"What?" Four pairs of eyes turned to look at him. Dr. Moseley had been surreptitiously looking at him the entire time. Castiel... didn't move.

"Um," he cleared his throat. "I mean, it makes sense, right? I died so the little piece of Cas inside me died with me. And now that I'm alive again it can't smush itself back into him." He looked imploringly between the three angels. One of them had to know what was going on.

"Maybe," Gabriel conceded after a beat of silence. Michael nodded slowly. Balthazar just looked at him like he'd grown a second head that was singing operettas. Sam looked smug.

"Ok, so?" he prompted. God, it was worse than keeping a five year old on track.

"The unregulated Grace is, in a sense, too large for your human vessel. It's pushing out against your soul."

"And that's what's hurting him? Making him seize?" Sam asked.

"It's our best guess," Gabriel shrugged.

"Except your soul is a mean little bastard and it's pushing back," Balthazar said, trying to sound bored but unable to contain the slight snarl at the insult.

"It seems that previously, you were able to suppress the Grace within you," Michael explained, one eyebrow lifted in amusement, like it was silly antics that a human soul could control the chunk of Angel innards.

"So how do I do that again?" Dean asked. It seemed the most logical answer to his current predicament.

"You don't," Balthazar snapped.

"Well why the hell not?"

"It'll kill him!"

The silence that hit the room was oppressive, a moldy blanket smothering the color out of the world. Missouri finally broke the silence with a cleared throat and authoritative stance.

"Dean, honey, what the angels are trying to get to, is that your soul can't handle the Grace, but there's a way for Castiel to relieve some of the pressure building up."

"How?" Dean prompted impatiently.

"A Blood Bond," Sam blurted out.

"What?" Dean scowled.

"Like they do at the graduation ceremonies."

"Seriously?" Dean attempted to throw his hands up in the air but the motion was aborted by the tubes and wires still taped to his arms. "So this all could have been avoided if we'd just gone through with the damned bonding ceremony in the first place?"

"Well, yea, but with Castiel," Gabriel answered petulantly.

"Alright, let's do this." Dean looked around the room for a likely instrument to pierce his skin before realizing he already had easy access to his blood. A short, painful tug was all it took to get the IV drip out of his arm. A moment later, a bead of blood welled out of the pinprick hole.

Balthazar had wheeled Castiel up to the bed and held up a silver blade.

"Alright Cassy, time to get a little bloody."

A flick of his wrist and a small cut opened up at the base of Castiel's limp palm. Dean grabbed the yielding hand and pressed it against the spot of red on his own arm. The moment they touched, a bright flash of light illuminated the room, forcing Dean to close his eyes against it's intensity.

By the time he'd blinked away the dark spots in his vision, a pair of dark blue eyes were boring into his skull.

"Dean Winchester," the angel said, voice deep and hard.

"Uh, yea?"

Dean would never forget the first thing Castiel would say to him after he'd practically saved the freak's life in that gravelly voice that lent gravity to everything that came out of his mouth.

Castiel narrowed his eyes and tightened his grip around Dean's forearm, his face covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his hair a complete mess. "Do you know what you do to me?"


	8. For Various Reasons Everyone Leaves

_Author's Notes: Thanks for all the kind words and encouragement so far! I also appreciate it when people point out specific things that don't make sense because then I can fix it. So this story was conceived as a pretty simple Dean/Cas story but then the plot kind of grew in my head into a rabid all-devouring thorn garden. Its about this point where it deviates and starts getting even plottier than it was. I hope you all hang in there with me!_

* * *

Dean flushed pink and gaped open mouthed at him. The human had no idea. His soul swirled with confusion and a strange sense of embarrassment. And still it clenched down against the piece of his Grace trapped inside. Castiel winced.

"The hell are you talking about?" Dean choked out and ripped his arm out of Castiel's grip. He felt a strange sense of loss, a tingling sensation of residual contact was left where Dean's hand had been.

"Your soul is attempting to crush me."

Dean frowned down at his own chest.

"You will not be able to see, feel, or control it," Castiel sighed, sitting back into the wheelchair that he no longer needed. It was strange, being connected to Dean's soul. It wasn't quite like having his own Grace back, but it made the ache easier to bear. Everything was clearer somehow. He could see faint wisps of Sam and the doctor's essence, though none were as clear as Dean. His wings were healing faster than they'd ever done so before. He'd always believed that one day he would be as strong as the other angels, though underneath the optimism rang a false ring of despair. Now though, now he felt as if there could be some probability to the possibility.

The sharp triple beep if the alert system rang through the air and Castiel reflexively reached for the pocket of his trench coat that wasn't there. He turned to look behind him where Balthazar was frowning at his phone. Gabriel also had his out but it was Michael who gave them all a curt nod.

"I have matters to take care of," he told them before disappearing in a flurry of wings.

"What was it?" Castiel asked.

"I don't know," Balthazar said, handing his phone over. There was the usual smattering of minor hauntings and cattle disturbances. A single demon popped up in Wisconsin. He scrolled over through the other division's alert boards. There wasn't anything within the last ten minutes that would warrant the attention of the head of the HAS..

"Probably just some bureaucratic bullshit," Gabriel supplied before snapping his own phone shut and shoving it into his coat pocket. "So you feeling okay now, kiddo?"

Castiel glared at him. "I don't like that name." For some reason, Gabriel acted as if saying Castiel would burn his tongue. Balthazar at least used his full name in official capacities.

"I'll take that as a yes," the older angel smirked before hopping off the countertop on which he'd been perched. "Well in that case I guess my work here is done. So long children!" In the next moment he was gone.

"Dean, are you okay?" Sam asked while hovering over his brother's hospital bed.

"He is fine," Castiel answered. It was strangely exciting to be able to see so easily what was going on with another being. He might even be able to heal the hunter now. But for the moment the human was perfectly healthy, whatever ailments that had plagued him before resolved by the Blood Bond.

"Hey! You don't know that," Dean snarled. He was obviously not nearly as happy about their new relationship.

"Yes, I do. I can see every part of you," he told him, leaning forward to impress his sincerity onto the Hunter. Dean scowled and pulled his thin hospital blanket further up his chest.

"Stay out of my head!"

Castiel frowned. "It is important for me to be able to analyze any head trauma you have suffered."

"If it's all the same to your boys I'd like to determine the state of Mr. Winchester's health for myself," the doctor cut in, taking the stethoscope from around her neck.

"I assure you, Dean is of good health at the moment. The only possible point of concern is the state of his liver. I will monitor the progress of its degradation and bring it to attention should it become worse."

Dean winced and glanced over at Sam who was glowering. Castiel had no idea why. This should have been good news. He could do this, he could protect this one Hunter like an angel should. Like he'd done before. He would save the body so the soul could remain at peace.

The sharp guitar twang of Witchy Woman snaked its way out of Balthazar's jacket pocket. "Oh crap, it's Pamela. What has that woman gotten herself into this time," the angel grumbled as he answered. "What? No a man can't get an angel pregnant! And, no an angel can't get a woman pregnant! Oh my goodness, Pam, are you pregnant?"

"Balthazar, did you impregnate Pamela?" Castiel asked. It should not be possible but Balthazar was notorious for his sexual proclivities that weren't reserved for the other angels. If it were to happen, Balthazar would be the one to do it.

"No!" Balthazar scowled. "I haven't even slept with her!"

Castiel had known him for long enough to hear the bitten off 'yet.'

"I'm talking to Castiel. Yes I have friends! What, no, that's disgusting! Who's with you?" Balthazar agitatedly rubbed at the stubble on his chin. "No, stay there. I'll come to you. Just listen to me for once! I'll be right there." He hung up on the Hunter with a short jab of his thumb. "Well, seems like Pamela's found a baby angel and she's pretty sure its not hers. So I've got to run. Keep me updated, Cassy." He didn't wait for a reply before he was gone, leaving Castiel with the three humans.

Dr. Mosely had proceeded to examine Dean anyways despite Castiel's insistence that the Hunter could walk out of the hospital in that instant. As the cold metal of the stethoscope pressed against his chest, Dean looked inclined to agree.

"As per code number 452 section b, a guardian is the primary medical advisor of their hunter," Castiel argued. He had work to do. The level 1 and 2 alerts were still assigned to him, and now, by extension, to Dean. The ghosts and werewolves were not the most glorious of hunts, but they were still important.

"And code number 452 section b also states that it is only valid in the field, in the absence of a trained medical professional. Now this here is a hospital, honey, so don't you try to lawyer me. I know my HAS regulations. My son's a hunter."

Castiel flushed slightly as Dean sniggered. He had never been very good at being sneaky. Perhaps Balthazar was correct in saying he should stop trying.

"Um, hi, Castiel. I'm Sam." Dean's brother had extended a hand that engulfed Castiel's own.

"Yes. You are Dean's brother."

Sam seemed surprised. "You remember me!"

It had been over twenty years, and Sam had merely been a baby, but his soul still sparked with the same vibrant red and green, an odd color combination, but pleasant in its own way. It would be difficult to forget. "Of course," he said, trying to keep the satisfaction out of his voice. He could see souls again, though faintly.

Castiel wasn't paying attention to the examination proceeding in the bed not two feet from him, but his gaze was pulled back when Dean gave an emphatic, "Hell no!"

The doctor was holding a small plastic container and glaring disapprovingly at the Hunter.

"I'm fine! Look, the angel said I'm fine!" Dean proceeded to rip the IV out of his arm and swung his legs off the side of the bed, preparing to make a break for it in nothing but his hospital gown.

"What is the issue?" Castiel asked.

"I need a urine sample to make sure his kidneys are all working."

"I am not peeing in a cup!"

"I can put the catheter back in," Dr. Moseley threatened.

"That is unnecessary. I can directly remove the urine from Dean's bladder into the cup," Castiel offered helpfully. It was exciting to be able to try out some of his more rudimentary powers now that he had a Blood Bond.

Dean blanched and snatched the cup out of Missouri's hand. "I hate you both," he snarled before storming off into the bathroom. The hunter had a very well-toned backside.

Sam covered his eyes and said, "Oh my god I don't need to see that."


	9. Following Pain Comes Pride

By the time Dean got back from the bathroom, Castiel and Sam were geeking out about something. Sometimes he forgot that while it was every day business for Hunters to be around angels, the rest of the populace rarely had the opportunity.

"So you just pop up, just like that? Anywhere?" Sam asked, his eyebrows climbing towards his hairline for escape.

"Yes, although it is very rare to actually be present for an angel birth as they pop up, as you say, wherever our Father has seen fit to place them," the angel explained.

"Wait what the hell?" Dean asked before he realized he'd opened his mouth. "So there could just be a bunch of babies crawling around out in the middle of nowhere because no one's found them yet?"

Castiel stared at him with wide blue eyes. "I... I'm sure that our Father places them in locations where they would be easily discovered."

"Well why the hell doesn't he just place them in a house or hell even a hospital?" Dean slammed the container of piss onto the plastic countertop since the doctor wasn't anywhere to be seen. Even humans had the decency to drop of their abandoned children on doorsteps and fire stations. And they weren't omniscient beings of limitless power.

"Dean," Sam started, but Dean shut him up with a hard glare.

"Angels fledglings are much hardier than human children," Castiel explained, though he was looking down at his own hands. "You should not equate our heavenly Father with your earthly one."

His brain ground to a halt before starting up again at double speed. A slew of defenses crowded their way to the forefront. Dad had always been busy, chasing down demons. He was one of the best Hunters they'd ever seen. And he only ever left them at gas stations and libraries. And that one time at a morgue. And he always meant to come back for them. And most of the time he left them with some money. It was nothing like abandoning a baby in the middle of the woods to fend for itself.

The angel stared at him, head tilted slightly to one side, brows drawn together. It looked a lot like pity. "Stop reading my mind!"

"I am not reading your mind," Castiel told him. "I am simply reading the emotions displayed by your soul. You have a very beautiful soul, Dean."

Dean wasn't sure if that was meant to be a compliment. The delivery was so clinical. It made him uncomfortable, like the angel was seeing him in his underwear. Which he didn't have on. He seriously needed to get his clothes back.

"Where's the doc?" he asked because there was no way in hell he was replying to Castiel.

"You mean Doctor Moseley and she is right here." Somehow the short plump woman was more terrifying than the angel who could probably snap his neck with little more than a thought. But then again Castiel with his tattered wings and messy hair was probably the least intimidating angel he'd ever met.

"So am I a free man yet or would you like me to give you some more of my bodily fluids?"

"Well, it couldn't hurt to take a blood and stool sample." Sam was wearing his stupid girly smile.

"Stop teasing your brother, Sam Winchester." Dean grinned at Sam's cowed expression. Serves the sasquatch right. "I'll need you," Missouri said as she turned back to Dean, "to sign these discharge forms and you'll be free as a bird."

"Yes, ma'am," Dean said emphatically as he scribbled his name onto the x-marked lines.

As he was flipping to the last page, Castiel stretched out his wings and with a light gust of wind, he was gone.

"Well goodbye to you too, Dorothy," Dean snorted. Freaking angel needed to learn some common human courtesy. A sudden flare of annoyance brought a scowl to his face when he realized they hadn't even discussed their working arrangement or exchanged contact information. Not to mention they still hadn't bothered to acknowledge the pink elephant in the room.

Missouri took the paperwork and left him in the room so he could change. Sam turned his back and studied the artwork on the wall. It was an abstract depiction of a man with a plow. Or a man with a tiny car. He couldn't be sure. His clothes were folded neatly on the countertop and after he dressed he realized that this wasn't the uniform he'd been wearing.

"Dude, where's my Greens?"

"Everything you came in with is in that bag over there," Sam nodded towards a giant ziplock on a chair. Dean recognized his pants, boxers, and pair of socks.

He groaned when he realized the rest of his clothing must still be in Michael's office. He only had two uniform jackets and the vest wasn't even his. Ellen would rip him a new one if she found out he'd lost it.

"I've got to drop by Central first, but then we're going out for burgers. My treat." Dean grabbed his things and led them out of the room. Just as he crossed the threshold, however, a flurry of wings ended with Castiel looking mortified and Dean with a mouthful of feathers.

"I apologize. I assumed you would still be in the room," the angel said, his wings tightening against his back.

"So you're still here?" Dean grunted, spitting out stray down and swiping his hand through his hair. The feathers were surprisingly soft.

"Ah, I only left to get dressed," Castiel explained, and sure enough, he was now sporting the regulation Greens and a battered old trench coat. The medical bracelet, however, still hung around his wrist. Dean twisted his own on his finger, but the tight plastic wouldn't yield. "Your car is not here," Castiel stated and Dean cursed himself for not thinking of that sooner. If they hadn't thought to bring his clothes, they sure as hell hadn't brought the Impala.

"Sam," he turned to his brother. "You have a car here?"

"No, I took a cab."

Dean groaned and rubbed his face.

"I will provide transport," Castiel said, nodding once to himself, a small smile on his lips.

The last time Dean rode Angel Air he'd gotten well acquainted with various medications whose names ended in "-lax." He wasn't eager to repeat the experience.

"No, that's okay. We can just call a cab."

The change in Castiel's expression was immediate and devastating. Eyes widened, lips quivered, and shoulder slumped. Even the great white wings dragged against the ground. Dean had been conditioned for twenty-two years by Sam to respond to the sad puppy expression with immediate acquiescence.

"I um," he cleared his throat. Except no, this was the angel who shoved his stupid Grace, his stupid Grace which still burned inside of him like an itch that he couldn't scratch, and then left him to deal with it on his own. Sure the guy sounded just as surprised as he was when he was told but still. It was like forcing someone to eat your arm and then forget you'd done it. How do you even not notice a chunk of your Grace is gone?

Now Castiel just looked alarmed and Sam's face seemed to be trying to make three different expressions at once.

"You are angry with me," the angel stated, not bothering to hide the fact that he was rooting around in Dean's head. Again.

"I have to get to Michael's office and then I am getting some real food with my brother who can't be bothered to see me unless I'm dying. But then you are going to tell me what the hell is going on. Capiche?"

"I see," the angel replied. "I will transport you now." Before Dean could protest, Castiel had grabbed his arm and with a sharp lurch he found himself swaying in the hallway just outside Michael's door.

"Warn a guy!" he growled, leaning against the wall for balance before knocking on the door twice.

It took a moment before a muffled "Leave!" came through the wooden door.

"Uh, Michael? It's Dean Winchester. I just need to pick up my uniform and vest from your office."

There was scuffling, and indeterminate voices before the door opened a few inches. Dean caught a glimpse of candlelight and incense before a bundle of clothing dropped to the ground and the door was closed again with a loud slam.

"Um, thanks," Dean bent down to grab his things. They smelled terrible, and it took only a moment for the hunter to recognize the telltale odor of sulfur.


	10. How To Piss Off Your Boss

The moment the door opened, he was pervaded by the utter wrongness that was the essence of demons. Except this was off somehow, something he'd never quite experienced before. Maybe it was the fact that he was stronger now, Dean's soul providing the balm against the hole in his Grace. He couldn't be sure.

The Hunter had reached down to grab the vest from the pile on the floor, slinging it across his shoulders though he had to know it would provide little protection against demons.

"We go in on the count of three," Dean said, glancing at him quickly as he zipped up the vest.

"No, wait. I will contact another team." They had no idea what was on the other side of that door. There could be one demon or many. They could be gathered just on the other side of the door or scattered throughout the entire room. He couldn't be sure he could take out even one unfriendly party and for some reason Michael was cowed. It would do no one any good for them to rush in only to be killed themselves.

"There's no time!" the hunter pulled a small knife from the back of his shoe. It was iron inscribed with silver, good against most ghosts, fairies, werewolves, and shifters but would be completely useless against a demon. No, this was not a situation they should enter so callously.

Except Dean didn't seem to care, his soul resonating with a fierce determination, an almost frightening level of focus and drive covering up the fear.

Before he could send out the proper alert, Dean quickly counted out, "One, two, three" and a steel-toed boot collided with the solid oak door just as Castiel hurtled himself at the wood, phone still in his hand. The Hunter would have hurt himself trying to kick in that door.

As soon as he was through the splintered wood, he gave the room a quick assessment.

It was with barely registered surprise that he saw there were two angels and one... abomination. There was no better word for it. It reeked of demon blood, dark and heavy, but it looked almost human. Its belly was engorged, skin stretched taut so that the tiny black-filled blood vessels stood in stark contrast to the paleness. Its eyes were solid black and tattered things sprouted from its back. Disgust made him shiver when he realized they were wings.

It stood in the strangest devil's trap Castiel had ever seen, the classic pentagram interlaced with soft swirls and arches. Candles lined the edge and five bowls of smoking herbs sat at the corners of the star.

Michael was the first angel, looking angry and flustered, his suit awry and his fingers clenched. Castiel didn't recognize the other angel. He was balding, which was strange for an angel, with an eagle nose and small eyes. His eyes flashed fear as they came through the door but his expression settled into cold neutrality.

The situation looked tactically superb, like there shouldn't even be a situation. Two powerful angels against a trapped demon. He was missing something.

Dean was moving forward after recovering from the impact with the door, but Castiel made sure to stay one step in front of him. He may not be able to harm the demon, but he could at least protect the Hunter.

With suppressed trepidation, he forced his Grace into his fingertips, preparing his attack, but before they got within reach, Michael had whipped around, slamming his palm against the creature's head.

It gave a high-pitched keen before light erupted through tiny fissures that wormed their way across its skin. A short second later, it was nothing but a pile of ashes on the ground.

Michael stepped back and wiped his hand against the edge of his jacket as Dean stumbled to a halt at the edge of the now-empty demon trap.

"What the hell was that thing?" Castiel was glad Dean had asked the question because he wasn't entirely sure he was allowed to question the Director so brashly after destroying his door.

"A demon," the unknown angel answered.

Dean narrowed his eyes and glanced back at Castiel and he knew that they'd both seen the wings.

"A new breed," Michael interjected, stepping around his desk to lift up the crystal carafe of wine set in the corner. "We were designing a devil's trap to accommodate its mutations. Isn't that right, Zachariah?"

"Yes, of course," the other angel, Zachariah, said, smiling the kind of smile that made children cry at night. Castiel shivered. Suspicion flared sharply from Dean's soul and he hoped to his Father that the other two angels couldn't pick up on it. Usually reading specific emotions were reserved for the Bonded, but Michael was very old and very powerful.

"Have the plans drawn up and readied for distribution," Michael instructed before the other angel flew off with a slow dip of his head. "Now, you two," the Director said, directing his gaze to the recently formed partnership.

"I apologize. I sensed a demonic presence and thought you were in danger," Castiel replied quickly before Dean could open his mouth. He didn't trust the human to conceal his bitter distrust.

Michael glared at him with what he could only read as disgust before schooling is features into the diplomatic half-smile he wore during speeches and presentations. Castiel fought the urge to flinch. He had always been a disappointment but breaking into the Directors office, implying that there was something he could handle that Michael couldn't, destroying federal property. This was a new low.

So it was with faint surprise that he greeted Michael's offer for them to take a seat and half a glass of wine. Dean fingered his fluted glass awkwardly, like he wasn't used to handling something so delicate. Castiel declined the drink.

"I will overlook this transgression, Castiel," Michael said, setting his own glass down and lacing his fingers together on the desk. "However, in the future, you will post an alert when encountering situations that are at a higher class level than you are cleared for."

Castiel nodded. It was standard procedure. He'd flouted it once or twice, when there were civilians in immediate danger, but this time they had been in Central. It would have taken less than no time for another fully-powered angel to make their way up to Michael's office.

"Hey, we thought we were saving your ass, okay? Next time you want to have creepy little pow-wows in your office, hang a sock on the door or something. You were acting weird as fuck and there were demons involved!" Castiel winced at the excessive use of profanity but he was infinitely grateful for Dean's defense, though he still shot him a glance that hopefully told the hunter to shut up. Michael already looked as if he wanted to punch him. Being punched by an angel was not enjoyable and Castiel didn't want to have his first time healing a human to be injuries inflicted by his superior.

Michael, however, did not give rein to his anger. Though his nostrils flared and his great white wings fluttered against his back, his voice was calm and steady. "I understand the urgency you felt, Mr. Winchester, but procedure exists for a reason. You can not selectively choose which rules to follow and which to ignore. If you continue to view our policies with such dismissal, we will be forced to terminate your position with us. You wouldn't want to continue the Winchester legacy would you?"

Dean immediately tensed, like a jaguar preparing to pounce and Castiel reached out a wing to settle against the Hunter's back in warning. The touch startled the man, who glanced back at the appendage with wide eyes before turning back to glare at Michael, though without the murderous intent from before. "You don't know anything about my father," he growled.

"Perhaps not," Michael said, shrugging slightly before leaning back against his wings. "I would like to speak with you two, however, about your rather unique situation."

The abrupt change in subject startled Castiel, but it was a subject that he too was eager to discuss. Dean's soul still bristled with violet rage, but there was enough curiosity mixed in to keep him settled.

"What about it?" Dean grunted.

"I would like for you two to fix the True Bond." It wasn't what Castiel expected, but it made sense. A functional True Bond could be very powerful, very beneficial in the fight against demons.

"I thought it was already fixed," Dean said with some confusion glancing over to Castiel, his arms crossed in front of his chest, one hand resting almost directly above the hand-shaped scar on his shoulder.

"Not entirely," Castiel answered slowly as he thought of the best way to explain the concept to someone who couldn't instinctively feel their basest essence. "Think of my grace within you as a reservoir of water trapped behind a dam. What we have done with the Blood Bond is to dig a canal from the reservoir to the river below. To repair the True Bond, we need to bring down the entire dam."

It wasn't completely accurate. His Grace was also actively trying to force its way out of Dean's soul, and Dean's soul was clenching back with a strength Castiel had not known possible in a human. The Blood Bond did not allow his Grace to reconnect, but it allowed his access to Dean's soul, not only to soothe it but to draw from it.

"And how are we supposed to do that? 'Cause the thought of TNTing my own soul isn't all that attractive." It was a question that Castiel had only managed to give passing thought to. In all reality, he was prepared to simply enjoy the freedom of having the power allotted him by Dean's blood. Asking to complete the True Bond as well seemed almost too much to hope for.

Michael didn't seem to have any concrete answers either. "That is something we will have investigate, although it will primarily be up to you two as there are very few sources on the subject."

"Right," Dean scoffed. "Real helpful."

Michael's phone started chirping again, another alert that didn't make its way to the rest of the system if the silence of his own cell was any indicator. The angel frowned at whatever message he'd received and stood up quickly.

"I am late for an appointment. I will contact you to speak at a different time. Please," he gestured quickly towards the gaping doorway. Dean looked set to argue but Castiel grabbed his wrist and drew him back into the hallway. Behind them, the splintered wood pieced itself back together.

The hunter bent down to scoop his remaining articles of clothing into his arms. "Dude, your boss is a giant dick."

It wasn't entirely inaccurate, though it wasn't fair to judge Michael for his actions. Managing the division had to be stressful and hectic without the intrusion of broken angels and snarky hunters.

"Don't give me that look," the hunter scowled. Castiel wasn't sure what look he was giving before but now it was probably one of surprise.

"Now get me the hell back to the hospital. Sam's probably starting to bald and he can't put his hair up into pigtails if half of its missing."

"Of course," Castiel stepped close in order to grab the hunter's arm.

"And holy hell on a biscuit I'm hungry."


	11. From Ash With Love

_Author's Notes__: Long chapter is long ._. Hopefully not too long though. I went back and edited some of the earlier chapters, mostly just changing numbers to conform better with how this world works _

_I always wondered why some of the monsters in Supernatural didn't carry around guns. Hunters would be so screwed. Wendigo with a gun._

Dean had always been good at dealing with things he could see. His best classes in school had been physics and, to the surprise of most everyone, art. Give him any classic car and he could have its engine block taken apart and put back together within an hour. Give him a monster and he can have it taken apart as well. He's not so great at putting those back together though.

So it's a problem that when he tried to visualize the mess he was in now, his brain drew nothing but blanks.

He glanced at the digital clock on his nightstand. Thirty-four minutes.

Dean rubbed his hand against his arm, but jerked away when he felt the smooth expanse of the handprint. As if the giant burn up his side wasn't bad enough. He was never taking his shirt off again.

And the angel who did it to him was coming in thirty-four minutes. He'd been tense all through lunch, so much so that Sam didn't even give him grief about the double cheeseburger with extra bacon and chili cheese fries. They'd spent most of their time talking about Sam, how school was going, his plans for the summer, whether or not Jess would have to be completely insane to agree to marry him. Stories from Stanford were almost better than daytime dramas, not that Dean would know anything about those. There'd been a brief atheist uprising in one of the frats, until one of them attempted to exorcise an angel and the Greek system had to threaten action and shut them down. Dean just managed to stop himself from saying 'kids these days.' He wasn't quite that old yet. There'd been a prank involving a horse, a pumpkin, and a strangely accommodating tourist, a crazy preacher from Palo Alto talking about splicing wings onto humans as a mark of saint hood, and a rock concert gone bad, but eventually even the repertoire of college insanity petered out.

During the gaping silences, Sam would look at him expectantly, waiting for some answers, some explanation. Dean didn't have any, not for Sam and not for himself. He didn't mention what had happened at Central. There was no reason to drag his baby brother into this.

Frankly, he wished he hadn't been dragged into this. By Castiel.

Thirty-two minutes to get his head on straight.

He got off the bed and paced furiously across the room that was too small to get a good rhythm going.

Thirty minutes.

Dean picked up his phone and dialed Ash's number.

"What's up, muchacho? Been gone for a while. You get your angel on yet? "

"I need you to look something up for me," he said, ignoring the question.

"I could be busy, you know."

"Are you on a hunt?"

"I could be."

"But you're not."

"Depends. What do you need?"

"Does the HAS keep files on all the angels?"

Ash clicks his tongue before sighing on the other end of the line. "Not that lowly humans have access to."

"Except you're not a lowly human." Dean smirks. He knows he's got Ash now.

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"But a six-pack will?"

"But a six-pack will," Ash confirms. "Who's the wingbutt you want checked out?"

"Castiel."

"Never heard of him."

"Me neither before two weeks ago."

"That your angel bro?"

"Yea. Can you do it?"

"Give me five minutes. They've changed their firewalls a bit since I last so helpfully discovered some of their security vulnerabilities." Dean remembers that time at the Academy. Ash would have been kicked out if he hadn't known the Harvelles since he was in diapers. As it was, he was forced to help design the new security system and was given one week's suspension.

Dean heard the popping of an opened can and some indeterminate crunching noises.

The subsequent silence gave Dean's mind time to kickstart its jumble of half-manic thoughts. His first impression of Castiel had been decidedly negative. The first word he would have chosen to describe the angel would have been "broken." But he had to give the guy credit for not giving up, for continuing to hunt even though he could be hurt. Like a Hunter instead of an angel.

Except what would that make him now? They said he was "better," but that could be anywhere from full-powered to a being able to fly a little faster.

And underneath it all was the big hulking question of why the hell they had that angel bond thing in the first place.

Not to mention whatever the hell that thing was in Michael's office. It had stunk of sulphur and its eyes were demon black, but something told him that the Director wasn't being entirely honest when he'd discounted it as a new breed of hellspawn.

A low whistling brought him back to the man on the phone. "Tough break, Winchester."

"You couldn't get it?" He couldn't help being a bit annoyed. Ash was famous for being able to get anything.

"Naw man, who do you think I am? Mitnick? I got the file."

"Send it over," Dean told him, now anxious to see what it was that had caught Ash's attention.

"Yes, sir. Right away, sir," Ash barked mockingly, but when Dean opened his laptop, he had the copied file in his mailbox.

"Thanks, dude," he said quickly and hung up without waiting for a reply.

The first few lines of the file were pretty innocuous. Name, birth date, ID number, address.

Lawrence, Kansas. Dean shook his head. It wasn't anything special. A lot of angels lived near Central. It was convenient and the houses were cheap.

Underneath that was a record of his assignments. About 80% were completed. Another 15% handed off. The last 5% marked in red. Numbers linked to notations followed nearly every one. Dean grimaced and clicked to the next page. The heading was labelled "Notes" but in reality it read like a gruesome medical history. There was the numbered list of injuries. Broken arm. Broken rib. Broken wing. Punctured lung. Broken rib again. Jesus. This guy probably had more scars than he had. If angels scarred, of course.

There's a page of known associates. Balthazar headed the very short list. Then Gabriel. Dean's surprised to find Rachel as the final entry. She didn't seem like the type to hang around underdogs like Cas.

Finally there was an academic record. Dean snorts at the near-perfect scores but winces at the red-lined "Special Permission"s that follow most of the angelic qualifying tasks. If Cas was human he'd be the nerdy kid who captained the math and science teams but always got picked last in gym. And Dean had been the aggressive loner who skipped gym altogether. High school wasn't a great analogy.

He glanced at the clock at the bottom of the screen and cursed, slamming the laptop shut.

One minute.

Moments later Dean jumped out of his skin and nearly threw a chair at an angel.

"Crap on a stick! There's a door for a reason."

The angel glanced at the door in question and then back at Dean. "Yes, it allows us privacy."

"It allows me privacy! I could have been naked for all you knew."

"And why would you be naked when you knew when I was coming?" Castiel frowns at him like this was the most important question of the hour.

"Maybe I like being naked," Dean grumbled, unable to think of a better explanation.

The angel seemed to consider this for a moment before giving a torturously slow nod. "I see." He clearly didn't.

"I'd offer you a drink but this place is so shitty there isn't even a mini bar so its water or zilch." Dean watched him warily from where he's standing in the corner, hands shoved into his jean pockets.

"Ah," Castiel said but didn't move.

It looked like it would be up to Dean to get this ball rolling. "Alright well, no way to not make this weird as hell but you got some 'splaining to do."

"Splaining?" Castiel rolled the word over his tongue, brow creased in confusion.

"Explaining. I Love Lucy?" If anything this makes the angel look even more bemused.

"Forget it," Dean sighed. He really wished he'd bought some alcohol before this little shindig.

"How," he thinks of his words carefully so as not to bring the conversation to another screeching halt. "Did your Grace get inside my soul?"

"I put it there. I apologize for doing so poorly but I was young and had yet to learn the proper way to form a Grace bond," the angel answered sadly. It was unsurprisingly unhelpful.

"Ok." This was like trying to get a five-year-old to admit they were the one who knocked over the lamp. "Why did you put it there?"

"You were dying."

To most people that would have been pretty clear, but Dean had toyed with death too many times to have that mean anything.

"Which time?"

Castiel looked shocked for a moment before his face drooped back into something that too closely resembled pity for Dean's comfort. "In the fire."

Dean's mouth went dry. He'd been in two car crashes, fallen from a two story building, suffered hypothermia, contracted meningitis. None of those instances brought the sheer blinding terror that the fire inspired. His arm started itching and his hand crept up his ribs, grounding himself in the wrinkled scars. He was alive. He'd survived. The air was cool and fresh.

"Dean!" Castiel's hand was clasped on his shoulder, clenching so hard that he could feel the angel's nails through the fabric of his jacket. The angel's eyes were wide and his steel gray wings raised so high they brushed the ceiling. "Please."

Dean wasn't sure what the angel was asking him for. He shook his head. But it seemed enough. Castiel released his grip and took a step back to sit on the edge of the bed, his long coat pooling around him.

"Ok, so, I was dying." Dean couldn't help his nostrils flaring as he said the words. "And you what? Thought it was a good time to make new friends?"

"We were already friends," the angel said softly. Dean jerked in surprise.

"We knew each other?"

"For a while." Castiel glanced at the open duffel bag sitting on the floor. "We were neighbors."

Dean let out a long breath through his nose. "Ok, so we were friends. Still doesn't explain anything."

"I was too late. You were badly hurt. Your soul was just departing your body and I," Castiel frowned at the wallpaper past Dean's shoulder. "I fixed it."

"You fixed it," Dean echoed. "What the hell does that mean?"

"I fixed your soul to your body with a piece of my Grace." Castiel finally turned his head to look at Dean with his blank expression and steady gaze. Waiting. Expectant.

All Dean could dredge up was the desire to find a liquor store within the next ten minutes and then drink until he forgot this whole episode. A normal person would feel gratitude, but this was too much, too big a gift for someone he didn't even remember.

"You feel guilty," the angel said softly, tilting his head to one side, face still neutral.

Damned angels and their damned mind reading. "No I don't." Dean was always a fan of lost causes.

"You are a very perplexing person, Dean," Castiel huffed.

"Really, Cas? I'm the confusing one?" Because reading the angel was like trying to read Chinese, frustrating and pointless. Like now, he seemed inordinately startled by the simple retort.

"I see."

Dean wasn't even sure what the angel was pretending to understand this time. Before he could figure anything out, the derelict rotary phone on the nightstand started ringing. The angel's eyes followed him across the room as he went to pick it up.

"Yea?"

"Mr. Winchester?"

"That's me."

"Is your car the one with license plate number KAZ 2Y5?"

"Yea?" Dean's stomach clenched because he knew this wasn't going to be good.

"Someone has... tampered with your wind shield."

"Son of a bitch!" he yelled as he slammed the receiver back into its cradle. At Castiel's questioning look he elaborated, "Someone's dicking with my baby!"

"You do not have a child," the angel said, as if explaining to a particularly slow student that he did indeed live on Earth.

"My car, Cas. Fuck." Dean grabbed his wallet and keys before storming out the door. He wasn't particularly surprised when the angel followed him down the corridor and out the front door. "Damn it" he cursed again when he saw the spider-web cracks spread across the glass. He just had it replaced and parts for the Impala weren't exactly easy to come by. They better not have done anything else or he was going to have to strangle someone. Not that he wouldn't strangle them for this alone.

He was so focused on the damage that he didn't notice someone creeping up behind him until a deep voice called his name. "Dean!"

He whipped around to see the angel, sword out and wings wide open, surrounded by three demons. The fourth demon almost took him by surprise, but he caught the movement fast enough to throw himself out of the way.

Straight into his windshield.

He felt the fractured glass buckle and give out under his weight, spraying him with glass shards as he crashed onto the dash. He heard a gun go off, then pain blossomed across his chest. Bitch shot him. Right in the vest.

He scrambled backwards, further into the car. The next shot went into the steering column. The demon, female with short blond hair, cursed as he flopped over into the back, putting the front seat between him his assailant. His hand went to his waist and he mentally slapped himself for leaving his own gun back in the room.

Luckily, there was a veritable arsenal in the trunk and a demon trap carved into the undercarriage. It'd pained him to put it there but he thanked god now that Sam had nagged him until he'd caved. No way in hell a demon was going to crawl in here and risk getting caught. Unfortunately, it wouldn't keep bullets out. Two shots buried themselves into the leather upholstery and Dean murmured apologies to his baby.

He took a deep breath and gripped the door handle. It was safer in the car but he was a sitting duck. And he was in the wrong line of work to always vote for safety. Two more shots went off and he yanked the door open, keeping low as he dashed to the back of the car.

Cold sweat ran down his back and his stomach dropped when he reached into his pocket. His keys were gone. They must have fallen out inside the car. Or on the hood. He heard rubber on tarmac and a glance under the car showed a pair of boots rushing their way towards him. He ran behind the next car over.

He had the knife in his boot and the flask of holy water he always kept tucked in his breast pocket. The knife wouldn't do much but the water might be able to hold the demon off long enough for him to get his keys. A guttural scream came from somewhere back by the door. It didn't sound like the angel, or maybe he just wanted it to not sound like the angel. Hopefully, Cas could take care of himself.

He ducked under the car again, searching for the demon, unscrewing the cap as he went. She was five feet away. He had to get closer. There wasn't enough water to just fling the thing at her. No, he needed a direct hit, he needed to pour the stuff right onto the bitch.

There were two options here. Stand up and leap across the car and hope she doesn't shoot him where it would really hurt or creep between the cars until he could somehow get behind her. Neither was very attractive to someone who liked having all his bits in one place.

But as it turned out, there was a third option he hadn't considered.

Wait for an angel to smite the literal hell out of her.


	12. All the Little Demons go Up and Down

_Author's Notes: I had a lot of trouble writing this chapter and I'm still not that happy with it, but classes start tomorrow so I really wanted to get one up. Will probably be rewritten/replaced at some point in the future. _

Demons were a dark mark upon the earth, slinking out of the depths of hell to prey upon the desperate and hopeless. But the real war happened on a different plane of existence, in the aether between heaven and hell. Great garrisons of angels descended upon the rising legions of demons, locked in combat for thousands of years while humans continued on in blissful peace and ignorance.

Here, among his earth-bound brethren, the battles were smaller. There were only a few hundred angels scattered across the globe, supported by thousands of Hunters, though they were called different things in other languages. (The Aztecs had referred to them as Warriors, the Japanese, as Priests. A small tribe in Africa named their men and women the Shield that Shattered.)

But nearly everywhere, angels were Guardians.

While some people spent their entire lives trying to figure out their purpose, all angels shared only the one. They were here on this earth to destroy demons. All these things and more were the mantra drilled into every young angel by teachers and mentors.

Of course they were also capable of smiting everything from ghosts, to werewolves, to the self-styled pagan gods that still haunted the hidden waterways of the old world, but their primary objective would always be to rid the world of hellspawn.

It was almost unthinkable when Castiel had tried to burn one out during his final days of training, that the demon had thrashed and writhed, choking up bursts of black smoke, but was otherwise unharmed. He'd hoped that, of all his failures, this wouldn't be one of them.

The three demons circling him warily, however, didn't know of his weakness. One of them carried a small caliber handgun, another a silver sword, and the last a flagon of something that Castiel could only assume was holy oil and a lighter.

He went for the third demon first, grabbing its wrists and slamming it against the ground. The fine bones crunched beneath his fingers and the oil spilled over the concrete, staining it deep brown. Three pulls of a trigger sent bullets into the air and Castiel twisted to avoid them. His elbow landed on the outstretched hand of the downed assailant, crushing the plastic of the orange lighter, sending shards into the soft flesh of demon's palm. Though the creature cried out in pain, Castiel knew all these wounds were superficial.

Though demons were the felled souls of humans, they seemed so much closer to angels. Wounds healed at unnatural speeds. They were faster, stronger, and could spot other monsters though they hid under well-formed masks.

And they were notoriously difficult to kill. If you were a human. A burst of Grace would burn out the demon's dirtied soul, and its body would follow. Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes.

The demon with the sword slashed at his back at the same time the one with the gun fired off two more shots. Castiel tightened his wings against his sides and leapt backwards. The demons would try to reduce his mobility by hurting his wings. With them he was faster by far, but if one should be injured, they'd turn into hindrances.

The sword demon swung around in an arc, forcing Castiel to duck, lashing out one wing to catch the first demon in the side, knocking her up against the wall. He grunted when he saw she still held the weapon in her grip.

Something caught him in the back of his left knee and he staggered forward. The previously downed demon had gotten back up and was currently low to the ground, swinging an empty fist. Castiel grabbed its wrist as it moved forward and slammed his palm against the demon's forehead, his momentum carrying them against the side of the nearest car.

It'd been over a year since he'd last tried this, when he'd begged Balthazar to let him come along on a case. As he forced as much of his Grace into the center of his hand, he could only hope it turned out better this time.

It was worse. The demon's eyes flickered black and black smoke leaked out of its mouth as Castiel pushed, harder and harder. He felt the trickle of power flow faster within him, stronger than it'd ever been before and he let it loose.

Raw heat coursed through his veins, an animal in itself that he could just barely contain before it broke free, pouring into the demon's tainted essence, burning as it went. But then it was too much, and Castiel realized with horror that it wasn't his Grace anymore that poured through his fingers. The energy now was golden and warm, almost cool after the burn of his own Grace. And it flowed so easily out of him, on and on, streaming into the air, filling the space until Castiel could barely make out the dark outlines of the demons.

He doesn't realize he's screaming until strong hands grip his shoulder, ripping him away from the side of the car where the imprint of the demon is burned into the paint. The golden light abruptly stops and he feels terribly empty, coldness seeping into the spaces left behind, making his shiver. His knees collapse and he finds himself against a warm chest, light brown wings pinning his own down against his back.

"I've got you, squirt," a familiar voice said.

"Gabriel." His own voice is strange, rough and barely a whisper.

"That's twice in a week, kid. Going to start thinking you're needy."

He couldn't fathom why the older angel sounded so happy. He lost Dean's soul, practically shoved it out of himself when his own Grace hadn't been enough. His first and only charge was gone.

"What the hell was that?"

Castiel's eyes snapped open and there was Dean, hand rubbing against his chest, staring at him with wide eyes and slightly open lips. And inside him, glowing soft and gold, was his soul.

"How are you alive?" The words slipped out of his mouth without him meaning to speak them. He'd felt Dean's soul leave, felt it snap into the open. But when he examined himself closely, he saw the thin thread that still tied them together, faint but solid.

"Well, you, I assume? Gotta say, Cas. I've never seen demons get screamed to death before." The hunter chuckled lightly and winced at the movement. Dean was hurt, not the level of hurt he had feared, but the normal, physical type of injury. There was a cracked rib and two bruised ones hidden under the bulletproof vest accompanied by a constellation of small cuts that littered his hands and face.

"I don't understand," Castiel murmured, unsure of who he is asking. He'd seen the man's soul leave. He'd grasped at the last wisps as they faded away into the air around them. He'd felt himself lose control.

"Okay," Gabriel chirped, shifting his shoulder underneath Castiel's weight. "How about we get this figured out somewhere else? I'm sure these nice crime scene folks would like to start off a load of paperwork-induced quarantining."

Castiel swayed back onto his own two feet. "Where?"

"I've got just the place. Come on, Dean-o!" Gabriel grabbed the Hunter by the wrist and flew off in a haze of golden brown wings. Castiel stretched out his own and followed though his limbs ached with each flap. He wasn't paying attention to where they were going, so it surprised him to find himself at a large yellow house surrounded by fields of sunflower stalks. The sky was clear but the sun was just peaking over the horizon in the east.

Gabriel had landed on the wide porch at the front, but Dean was no longer by his side. Instead, the Hunter was balled up at the base of a large beech tree, his sides heaving as he spat out the final remains of his lunch.

"I'd take him back to the factory. This one's defective," Gabriel sighed, flopping down onto the porch swing.

"We need to take Dean to a hospital," Castiel said, a bit irritated that Gabriel had brought them to the middle of nowhere.

"We will, but I need to talk to you two first."

Dean had stood up, face ashen gray as he clutched the side where his ribs were hurt. His steps were steady, though, as he climbed up onto the porch to glare at Gabriel. "Never do that again," he croaked.

"I had to get you away from there quickly."

"Why?" the Hunter asked with a scowl.

Gabriel folded his hands over his stomach and fixed Dean with a cold stare. "Because, Dean, sixteen demons just banded together and tried to kill you."

"There were only four demons," Castiel corrected him.

"There were only four demons that made it to the motel. Why do you think it took me so long to get there? In fact, there's still four demons trapped in a Safeway about a mile out that I need to go back and take care of."

Castiel was stunned. Demons rarely congregated into large groups. If it happened, it would only be for convenience or safety in areas with a lot of hunters. It was even rarer for demons to have specific targets. They weren't picky about whose soul they managed to steal or coerce. Something else occurred to Castiel as he went over the events of the past hour.

"They weren't expecting me to be there. Only one of them had holy oil and it was in a pitcher."

"Yup. They were going all in for Winchester over here. Probably only had the oil as a precaution. But there's something else as well. They came in four teams of four." Gabriel paused and looked at the two of them expectantly.

It took a moment but Castiel figured out what the other angel was implying. Five or more demons would have warranted a Level 4 warning, sent to all angels, putting them on alert. Twenty or more demons seen at once would have put everyone on a Level 5 warning, sending all checkpoints and government buildings into lockdown. A curfew would be imposed and traffic in and out of all major cities would be strongly regulated. By splitting into teams of four, the demons would maintain their more common Level 3 warning that was mostly ignored, should they be caught out individually, and by staying well under twenty, they wouldn't trigger quarantine or lockdown.

"Someone is feeding the demons angel operating procedures," he said, eyes wide and disbelieving.

"What?" Dean asked, slightly annoyed, and Gabriel nodded.

"That's what I thought, too."

"What are you talking about?" the Hunter demanded. Castiel glanced over at Gabriel who gave a slight shrug.

"The way the demons attacked was arranged to stay unobtrusive to the angel's warning system."

"These past two weeks have been extremely quiet. Almost no demon activity. And then suddenly sixteen demons show up and they're all headed to gank Pukey over here? Sorry to tell you but someone wants you bad," Gabriel grimaced.

"Shit. Two weeks? That's when I had my meeting with Michael," Dean added. After a pause he added, "You think he has something to do with this?"

"You should not jump to conclusions so quickly." Hot indignation shot through his stomach at the Hunter's callous accusation. Michael did not merely manage the HAS, he was also God's chosen, the one angel their father communed with personally. Even past that, Michael was just, forgiving of the righteous, merciless towards the corrupt. Castiel had worked under him for a year and he knew no better angel.

"What happened at your meeting?" Gabriel asked.

"He looked into my soul and found out I had a chunk of your Grace shoved in there." Castiel couldn't help but catch the slightly accusatory tone of his voice. "And then he said he'd have to find out whose it was."

"If he had to investigate who the Grace belonged to, I doubt he kept it a secret," Castiel argued.

"And what about that thing in his office?" Dean snapped.

"It was a captured demon! He was designing a new binding trap," Castiel said, though even he found the situation rather strange. There were far more suitable places to do research than the Director's private office. And Zachariah wasn't part of their usual development team. If anyone, it should have been Gabriel with there with Michael.

"Wait, what demon?" Gabriel asked, eyes narrowed.

"This morning, after we got out of the hospital, Cas zapped us over to Central to grab my stuff. Michael was in his office with this weird mutant demon thing."

"It was odd," Castiel admitted.

Dean snorted. "Yea it was odd. Dude did not want us anywhere near that office, tried to get us to leave as soon as we got there. And there was that creepy ass angel."

"Zachariah," Castiel amended.

"An angel named Zachariah? Are you sure?" Gabriel was sitting forward now, elbows on his knees.

"Yes. Have you heard of him?" If anyone knew, it would be Gabriel who'd spent over sixty years in and out of Central.

"Never met him," Gabriel shook his head and Castiel felt a pang of disappointment. "Okay, we need to get going before they notice we're missing. Before we go, though," he pointed at Dean, "You two need to be careful and stick together. If the demons want you dead, they'll be a hell of a lot less eager to come at you with an angel around, especially if word about what Banshee did at the motel got out. We'll talk about this more later."

He reached out to take Dean's arm, but the Hunter jerked back.

"I said never again! You're worse than a freaking biplane."

Gabriel shrugged and took off without them.

"Come on Cas. Pony up."

Castiel started again at the nickname. It was what Dean used to call him twenty-two years ago.


	13. Beneath Your Breast Lies a Tardigrade

_Author's Notes: Chapter has been updated a bit. Dean wouldn't just take the news lying down and the transition into the snark seemed kind of unnatural so I added a bit to the conversation and introduced Sam earlier._

Flying with Cas was not nearly as godawful an experience as it was with Gabriel. His stomach still managed to tie itself into interesting knots but at least it kept everything inside. And it jostled his ribs a hell of a lot less.

Dr. Moseley was been impressed with his repeat visit less than 24 hours after he'd been discharged. She sent him to radiology, even though Cas kept insisting there was no danger of his ribs puncturing a lung or anything. Dean was grateful, honestly, to get some quiet. The balding radiologist named Frank who squinted at him from behind thick square glasses wouldn't say a word other than to growl "stay still" when Dean started fidgeting.

He'd been attacked by sixteen demons. Sure he had really only been attacked by one, but if Gabriel and Cas hadn't been there, he would have been mince meat on the side of the road and Sam would probably install something douchey like an ipod deck in the Impala. Dean had always toyed with mortality ever since he helped his dad track down a skinwalker when he was thirteen and earned himself a dislocated shoulder, but that was toying. He wasn't just playing the chances, he was rigging the game. Sixteen demons was like hitting on a ten and queen.

He knew in his gut that his sudden popularity with the black-eyed uglies had something to do with his Bond with Castiel. He'd started out resenting it, seeing it as an obstacle. But Castiel had saved his life twice now. He felt a pang of guilty for seeing nothing but the broken arm and bloody shirt. He should have given the angel a chance to prove himself. Hell, he hadn't given the angel a chance and he still proved himself. Sure, Cas was a bit unconventional, but Dean had never liked coloring inside the lines anyways. And he seemed a hell of a lot more trustworthy than the other angels.

There was Michael with his shady face and too-white wings that had to be hiding something, Gabriel who just happened to be in the right place, right time, with all the right answers, Balthazar who seemed a little too oily and slick, and Zachariah just gave him the heebie jeebies. Freaking angels.

Maybe he should have just joined the army. But no. Sam had given him the sad face and watery eyes and Dean agreed to take the job with a Guardian angel in the continental U.S. Shit. He had to get Sam out of here, away from him if he was going to be demon central. The kid needed to get back to school. Colleges had some of the most intensive warding outside of airports and government buildings.

Frank gave him an extra hard squint that Dean took to mean that he was done. He sat up gingerly and shoved his arms back into the loose sleeves of the hospital gown. Cloth this time. Upgrade.

Dr. Moseley gave him a prescription for painkillers and Sam managed to bound his way up from the waiting room in time to fill it for him. Castiel was waiting near the entrance looking pissed and confused and a little bit sad.

"I apologize, Dean, for being unable to relieve your pain."

"Dude, it's fine. Not like I haven't had worse. Taking out four demons must have drained your batteries or something, right? Gotta save your energy for the next time they decide they can't resist the allure of Dean Winchester." He flashed a cocky smile and tried not to breathe too deeply even though Missouri said he should do so once an hour.

Cas stared at him and took a deep breath, clearly bracing himself. "Dean, there's something I have to confess. I couldn't kill the demons using only my own Grace."

"You mean that was Gabriel?"

"No." Castiel shook his head and visibly forced himself to look Dean in the face. "When my own Grace was not enough, I accidentally drew on your soul through the Bond. I... I pulled too hard. I dislodged it."

"What?" Dean asked, his voice barely a hiss. "You lost my soul?" he bellowed. He was trying to give the angel a chance here. He really was, because the chunk of angel Grace stuck inside him had saved his life. But it was a different thing to lose his soul completely. The angel had traded his soul in return for his life. It was no better than a demon deal. Did souls that angels took go to Hell? Or did angels eat them like Wheaties? Because they sure as hell didn't seem to eat anything else.

"Dean, no!" Castiel said in horror and grabbed the Hunter's raised arm. The Hunter realized belatedly that he'd said it all out loud. "I would never allow your soul to be exchanged so trivially. I don't know how to explain it, but your soul still resides within you. You have not lost it." The angel was mere inches from his face, his voice loud but calm. "Your soul is stronger and more resilient than I could ever have imagined." Castiel sounded so reverent, so earnest that Dean had to look away.

Instead, he stared down where he could feel the angel's touch against his breastbone, palm flat against his chest like it could hold his soul inside. He wasn't sure what he was looking for.

"You can't do that, Cas," he said dumbly.

"I know," the angel sighed. "I did not mean to call on your soul at all. I did not know I could call on it so easily. But now that I do I can, I can stop myself, prevent myself from pulling on it in the future.

Dean frowned. That wasn't right either. "The demons..." he started, but wasn't sure where he was going.

"He can't kill demons by himself," Sam's voice said for him. Dean's head jerked around to see his brother standing awkwardly next to a row of chairs, white prescription bag in hand.

"You heard that?" he scowled and took a step away from the angel. His chest felt cold where the angel's hand had once rested.

"Some," Sam said, shrugging his shoulders. "I don't know why you're made at him. From the sounds of it, he saved your life, and probably the lives of all the people in that motel."

Castiel shook his head, his wings draping low against his back. "Gabriel was nearby. My actions were unnecessary and it was, it was a violation."

"And what if Gabriel wasn't there?" Sam argued back. "Would you have just let those people die?"

Castiel blinked owlishly at Sam before looking uncertainly at Dean. The Hunter sighed and winced when his ribs twitched.

"As much as I hate to admit this, the Sasquatch is right. We can't always count on someone else to be there. If you can save people by borrowing my soul, then borrow my soul. But," Dean narrowed his eyes. "If you break it, you bought it. And since you're an angel, I expect you to keep it in the cushiest part of Heaven."

To his credit, Cas didn't break out into girlish tears of glee. Instead, he smiled. It wasn't a very big smile, but it was the happiest Dean had yet to see the angel. "I will endeavor to place it in a place of honor and glory."

"Forget honor and glory," Dean scowled. "I want heaven to be filled with pie. Pie and ladies."

"That's gross, Dean," Sam interjected, his mouth turning down into a disappointed frown.

"It does sound unsanitary," Castiel agreed, face falling back into neutral impassivity.

"You two don't know how to live," Dean threw back. "Alright, now. You have my little white pieces of earthly heaven?" He snatched the paper bag from Sam's hand.

"They're painkillers, Dean. You make them sound like candy," Sam sighed, still frowning because he couldn't take a joke. Dean didn't know where he'd gone wrong with the kid, but after twenty-two years, he'd long since given up.

"Heaven does not come in pieces, nor is it white," Castiel added because he couldn't take a joke either. Maybe the two of them could start up the Stick-Up-the-Ass Club. "If it did, I would not recommend its consumption." Dean almost didn't catch the quirk at the end of the angel's lips. So the guy had a sense of humor, just a terrible one. He would have to work on that.

"Yea and I'm not supposed to drink five cups of coffee a day but that happens pretty regular so," Dean shrugged and popped two pills into his mouth, swallowing them dry. "Gotta say, Cas, heaven tastes a bit like chalk."

No one laughed. Dean was pushing a bit.

"Says here I'm supposed to eat this with food. Who's up for burgers?"

"Dean, you just ate two hours ago!" Sam bitched.

"Hey, losing your soul takes a lot out of a guy," Dean snipped, shoving the bottle of pills into his pants pockets.

"Seriously Dean? That's the card you're pulling?"

"I do not believe burgers are the answer to the fatigue of your soul."

"Fatigue? What the crap, man? You just said it was all bright and shiny!'

"I said no such thing. I said that it was strong and resilient."

Sam's frown had eased away by the time he snorted and chimed in with, "Like a cockroach." While Dean was glad Sam had gotten over his mini heart attack he wasn't appreciating this new-found alliance.

Castiel cocked his head as if thinking for a moment. "That is a very apt comparison, Sam," he said gravely.

"Oh fuck you two," Dean snarled as they exited the hospital. He knew they were joking, but their words brought up doubts that Dean hadn't even known he'd had. What if his soul really was the equivalent of a cockroach? Hard as hell to kill, but dirty and unwanted? After all, it was still doing something to Cas' Grace that it shouldn't be. Their Bond got screwed up along the way and he couldn't ignore the feeling that it was somehow his fault. After all, he was the one who couldn't even remember the guy. And now it was pulling disappearing acts?

"Dean," Cas said from somewhere behind him. "Your soul is strong and resilient, but you were correct as well. It is indeed bright and shiny." Sam sniggered and Dean could feel the blood rushing into his ears. Annoying angels and their soul-o-vision.

Before he could retort, three beeps that were becoming far too familiar came from the angel's pocket. Cas stiffened as he read the message. "Michael wants to see us."

"Shit," Dean muttered.

"What?" Sam asked, looking between the two of them with a confused frown on his face.

Dean gave an exaggerated eye-roll and schooled his features into a resigned grimace. "We kind of dodged out of there before filing the appropriate paperwork. Michael's probably just gonna ream us a new one. Bureaucracy," he scoffed and sent the angel a pointed look.

"Yes. He would like to ream us a new one immediately," Cas said uncertainly.

"Okay, well I'll meet you guys back at the motel later. I have to call Jess," Sam said, blushing slightly.

"Wpsh," Dean imitated and snapped his wrist through the air.

"You're just jealous," Sam said with a girly flip of his hair. "You wish you had someone that had you whipped."

"Dean," Castiel, called, holding out a hand expectantly.

Dean ignored Sam's smirk as he stepped closer and let the angel grab his arm. When he caught sight of Sam snapping an invisible whip through the air, he flipped him the bird before being whisked off in a flurry of steel-grey wings.


	14. Behind Walls, Bars, and Smarmy Smiles

_Author's Notes: Ok so I'm still trying to figure out the best way to edit/post these - I think I went back and changed Chapter 13 about ten times after I posted it so I'm trying to wait 24 hours after I finish writing until I post and see if it works out better. So the major change in Chapter 13 was Dean's reaction to finding out about temporarily losing his soul. He was far too reticent in the previous version which left the issue completely unresolved. Sorry for all the changes and thanks for sticking with me so far!_

_Alternate title for this chapter: Zachariah is a stupid little shit. I cut out the first hundred words or so of Michael and Dean yelling at each other._

Two pairs of green eyes stared expectantly at Castiel, but he could only satisfy one of them. It surprised him a little how difficult it was to choose. But ultimately, reason won the fight.

"Michael is right. This is the wisest course of action."

The shock and betrayal were easy to read on Dean's face, much less his soul.

"Well it's not going to happen. I spent four years in the Academy training to fight these bastards, not cower inside Central like some wet-eared civilian," Dean raged, standing up from his chair.

"Actually," Michael said smoothly. "You are a material witness to a large-scale demon attack. I have the authority to detain you unless you give your full cooperation. Castiel, escort Agent Winchester down to the holding level."

Castiel reached for the Hunter's arm but Dean jerked away and stormed out the door to the elevator.

As soon as they were out of earshot the human whirled around, stopping Castiel short mid-stride.

"I can't believe you're just bending over for that asshole! We can't trust him," Dean bit out.

"You can't trust him, but only because you are so quick to pin him as a villain. Simply because he doesn't share every piece of information with a First-Year Hunter doesn't mean he is deliberately hiding dangerous secrets!"

"Look me in the eye and tell me you don't think something's going on."

Castiel matched the hunter's glare with his own. "Of course something is going on. I am just not so completely convinced that it is something sinister."

"And you're just going to lie down on your belly like a good little errand-boy until Mikey reveals his hand?" Dean challenged.

"I am not going to 'lie down on my belly.' I am going to protect you. This is for your own good!"

"You have no right to tell me what is and what isn't for my own good."

"Why are you so insistent on risking your life?"

"And what's the alternative, Cas? Someone else getting hurt while I'm hiding in a jail cell? You think the demons are just going to stop because I'm surrounded by some fancy wards? They're demons! And if they're organizing, they can cause a hell of alot more shit than ganking one Hunter."

"And what," Castiel started but Dean grabbed his wrist. The Hunter plastered a wide grin on his face and nodded at the blond secretary that rushed by with an armful of folders. Once she disappeared into an office, Dean dropped his hand like its been burned. Castiel scowled and continued in a lower voice, "Clearly your death is a part of something bigger. One man would not warrant a concerted effort by sixteen demons. If you die, we lose our best lead, and the demons gain whatever it is they're trying to accomplish. And what do we gain, Dean?"

"What makes you so sure I'm going to die?" the Hunter asked in return. "Believe it or not Cas, but I've been doing this a lot longer than I've been in the academy. I might not be book-smart like Sam but I know how to keep my bacon out of the fire."

"And what if this were Sam? Would you be so eager to see him leave these walls?"

"I'm not Sam."

"No, you're not. If you were, the demons might not want you dead."

"Gentlemen," a cheery voice interrupted them. Castiel mentally shook himself. He'd become so focused on the Hunter that he'd completely missed the angel's appearance.

"Zachariah," Dean muttered.

"I believe the fine folks down at holding are expecting you," the angel beamed at them, holding an arm out towards the elevators.

They didn't say another word as they descended the five floors. Dean frowned at the elevator control panel, deep in thought. Sometimes, Castiel wished he really could read the Hunter's mind instead of trying to interpret the signs of his soul. Right now there were the obvious anger, loathing, and suspicion. It didn't surprise him to also see a bit a fear. But then there was also the sense of betrayal, of longing, and of hope. It only served to confuse the angel more.

Zachariah followed them all the way to the cells, humming along to the elevator music, and Castiel resented him for it. Dean wouldn't speak again with Zachariah within hearing range, and once he was in a holding cell, there would be guards and cameras watching his every movement. He didn't want to leave Dean on such a sour note. The Hunter had to understand that he was doing this because it was the right thing to do, not because Michael had commanded it.

But he didn't get the chance. The steel-barred doors slid closed with a click and Dean slumped down onto the cot, pulling the thin polyester blanket over his head.

Castiel growled in frustration as Zachariah laid a wing over his shoulder. "I'm glad to see you're a voice of reason in your odd little duo. How is that bond of yours coming along?"

"It would be better if Michael did not ask me to imprison my charge."

"Now, now, Castiel. You know its for his own good."

Castiel tries to suppress the shiver that runs through his feathers at Zachariah's chiding tone repeating his own thoughts. The angel sounded genuinely concerned, but the look on his face was that of a piranha let loose in an aquarium of guppies. "I must attend to my other duties," Castiel said, extracting himself from under the other's wing.

"Ah, yes, your duties have been reassigned. Michael has thought it best that you resume your previous duties here, in administration." Zachariah grinned with all his teeth.

Castiel felt an unreasonable rush of anger heat up his face. His fists clenched imperceptibly by his side. "Why?" he demanded. He had taken down four demons, albeit with stolen power, but Michael didn't know that. If anything he should have been allowed more difficult hunts, not pushed back out of the field.

"Tell me, Castiel, how exactly you took down those demons?" Zachariah guided them to an empty office, sparsely furnished and oppressively small.

For some reason the explanation stuck in his throat. Perhaps Dean's skepticism was getting to him. "I burned them out through my Grace," he told the half-lie uneasily.

Zachariah shot him a pitying look. "Now we both know that isn't true."

"I don't understand," he said with mock confusion. There was no way that Zachariah could have known what happened with Dean's soul.

"Castiel," Zachariah tisked, sitting back in the swivel chair behind the desk, his hands hanging limply off the arms. "You don't want to play these games with me. I know it wasn't you who killed those demons."

Castiel narrowed his eyes into a deep frown. This time his confusion wasn't feigned. "Who do you believe killed the demons?" He just managed to bite back Gabriel's name. His former housemate wasn't the type who appreciated being pulled into someone else's fight.

"Why," Zachariah said smugly, like the jackal that snatched the hare from the jaws of the lion. "Dean, of course."

It was preposterous. The notion of a human taking down four demons was so ridiculous that he wanted to laugh, but he was too bewildered to do even that. Zachariah's smile faded a little.

"You needn't look so shocked. It wasn't difficult to figure out," the older angel said, clearly struggling to fit Castiel's reaction into his version of the truth.

"I don't understand where you are drawing your conclusions from, but I can assure you, Dean did not destroy those demons." Although in a strange, indirect way, the Hunter was responsible. It was his soul after all, but only when channeled through Castiel could it be controlled and have such an explosive effect.

"I'm going to be straight with you, Castiel. You're going to want allies in the right places. Now, Michael wants Dean to be the new Messiah, but I'm pretty sure neither you nor your little Hunter is the type to want to play holy man. If you level with me, however, I can get you anything you've ever wanted. Dean too. Wealth, power, a decade-long vacation in Aruba. What do you say?"

He had no idea what the angel was talking about. Zachariah apparently thought the conversation in Michael's office had been very differently from how it'd actually gone. "Michael's ideas had some merit," he replied carefully. He had agreed, afterall, to detain Dean for his own safety.

Zachariah grimaced and rolled his eyes. "Yes, his plan is very noble and righteous, but it's also outdated, old-fashioned. The kids these days don't care about God and church. They think they just have to avoid demons and the big sins and they'll be fine and who are we to tell them any different. No, what they want is sensationalism, flashy lights and blinking colors. They want a celebrity. They want the technicolor dreamcoat and don't care who's wearing it. Michael doesn't get that but I do and I can help you make the most of it."

This was ludicrous. Zachariah had clearly gone mad. Except he could believe that Michael had larger plans for Dean past completing the bond. But to impersonate Christ? It was sacrilege at it's highest level. No angel would dare perform such a transgression. "I will need to think on this."

"Of course," Zachariah drawled, his grin plastered firmly back in place. "Discuss my offer with your charge. Here's my number. Call me when you make up your mind." Zachariah held out a blank business card printed with a single row of black numbers. "Until then, Agent Hendrickson is expecting you on level three."

Castiel took the slip of card stock and frowned at the other angel. "I should be with Dean. We should work on strengthening our bond." They should work on _completing_ their bond. There were stories filtering through the ages, though no reliable sources, about the power of a True bond. If they truly managed to complete theirs, it would make both Dean and himself less vulnerable to demonic attacks. Zachariah seemed to believe these tales as well.

The older angel chuckled and folded his hands on the desk. "Oh, I think your bond is strong enough. Michael would like to give Dean some time on his own to calm down a little." Maintaining the facade was extremely frustrating, but necessary. Even the illusion of power would offer protection against whatever machinations were happening within Central. Perhaps it was something he could use.

"Then perhaps I should return to the field until he does." Leaving would give him opportunity to speak with Gabriel and when Dean fell asleep, he could speak to him unobserved. A part of him also itched to return to work, to perform the duty he had fought so hard to receive. He was stronger than before and it was unlikely Michael had assigned his tasks to someone else and there was only so much human Hunters could accomplish.

"That will be unnecessary. You've had a difficult day and we'd like to keep you close to home, as they say, to make sure you're going to be alright." Zachariah gave him a look that would almost look sympathetic if not for the dark glint in his eye. "And this will give you an opportunity to clear your head, consider the road ahead of you, think about what we've talked about. I want what's best for your, Castiel, and for your charge."

Castiel nodded stiffly. He did not believe a word of it.


	15. Around Them the World Keeps Spinning

_Author's Notes: Okay, now that I know when all my assignments are due, I'm going to try to update every Saturday. In other news I know nothing about police procedure outside of television procedurals. In this verse, Dean grew up inside the system (sort of) so he's not that into breaking out of jail, even if he hates being in it. I'm really excited about the next chapter though 8) _

Dean hated to admit it but the Sheriff was competent. Competent and could read him like the E at the top of a vision chart. Unfortunately, this meant that he was curled up on the thin plastic mat with the single thin blanket thrown around his shoulders while the majority of his clothing, along with his weaponry and miscellaneous tools, was stashed in a plastic bin in the evidence room.

"You're damn lucky I'm letting you keep your skivvies, pretty boy," was her answer when he complained.

"This has to violate some sort of code. I have rights you know! My brother's half a lawyer and he will bury you in litigation and yellow tape."

"Stow it kid. I know a hunter when I see one. And I know every trick in your book, including the one where every hunter has their own book."

"And what makes you such an expert?"

"I used to be one of you," she snorted, taking a seat behind the desk with his wallet and badge. He took a good look at her now. She had short hair, barely long enough to be held up in her ponytail. He didn't notice it at first, but she had the haunted look of someone who had seen the worst that humanity had to offer and had made it to the other side.

"Why'd you quit?"

She gave an almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulder. "Family," she said, and it said enough. She flipped open his wallet and raised an eyebrow. "Dean Winchester," she read. "Back in the day I was in the Academy with a John Winchester. Wouldn't happen to be any connection?"

"I'm his kid. You knew him?" Dean asked warily, sitting a little bit more forward on the cot.

"Briefly. He was a few years ahead of me at the academy and I went east with my husband as soon as I graduated so I wasn't around for the big Azazel debacle," she said offhandedly. The Sheriff copied things from his HAS records into the intake forms. "Damned angels never do the paperwork. Just assume that because we don't have giant feather dusters sticking out of our backs that we exist to do their paperwork. You'd think Castiel would be different after working in the pits for a year but no. Slap on a promotion and he's just another angel dick."

"Jesus. You know Cas too? Who are you? My stalker?"

"Sheriff Jody Mills, also known as the bureaucrapper," she scowled, clicking furiously through the screens. "Everyone here knows Castiel. Not many angels stuck on desk duty so he was kind of a one man freak show."

"Hey!" Dean said before he could rethink defending the guy who'd just locked him up.

"Geez, touchy," Jody chuckled without looking up. "Didn't mean no offense. It was just how all the other angels treated him. How'd you get mixed up with him anyways?"

Dean sighed and flopped down onto the cot. "He's my guardian."

"Seriously?" This time he had her full attention. "I thought they weren't bonding him to any Hunters. Liability issues and all that."

"Yea well, apparently they didn't read him the fine print early enough," he grouched, twisting on the thin mat, trying to find a position where none of his joints were poking into something hard.

"Whatever that means," the Sheriff scoffed. "Hey, I know you need your beauty rest but don't go conking out on me yet. What charges they got you in on?"

"Seriously? You're asking the criminal to help you fill out his intake forms? I'm in for drunk and disorderly conduct. I feel pretty sober now so you can just let me go."

"Right. I don't know how you fancy folks at South do things, but here at Central, an angel brings you in, same angel's got to bring you out. Even for drunk and disorderly conduct. So you might as well make my life easier because I'm the one with your clothes in a box."

Dean started to curl an arm around his head but the pain in his ribs stopped him. "Uncooperative witness." Figures that the first time he actually manages to land in jail its for the pansiest offense possible. He almost wants to lie and say he sent three thugs to the hospital in a drunken brawl.

"Really," she said in a tone that implied she also expected something involving thugs and hospitals.

"I'm a wild one," he drawled, shooting her a wide grin.

"Alright Tarzan, time to join modern society and put on some clothes." He perked up a little a the prospect of getting his things back, but the Sheriff rummaged through one of the desk drawers and tugged out a plain white long-sleeved shirt and grey sweat pants.

"Please tell me you didn't confiscate these off a meth-head," he groaned as he got off the cot to grab the offered clothing.

"Nah, Joe was more into crack cocaine." At his face she barked a laugh. "I'm kidding. Just stuff we keep around in case. You'd be surprised how many felons decide to land themselves in jail through the act of being naked in public."

Getting the shirt on was a bit painful with his ribs but the drugs were still recent enough to let him dress. "Hey," he asked as he pulled on the pants. "If you're not part of HAS anymore, what're you still doing in Central?"

"Hundred years ago the angels commandeered the police station here and I guess the locals decided to stick around. It's weird but it works." She situated herself in the rolly chair behind the desk. "Alright so, you still get your one phone call. I'll bring you a sandwich in about an hour, and you'll get your stuff back when you leave. You got that?"

"Yea. I need to call someone."

"Right now?" she asked, a little irritated.

"Yup." Sam was still expecting him back at the motel and he was positive that Castiel, in his infinite wisdom, hadn't remembered to call the sasquatch. Not that it was his responsibility anyways.

So with his hands cuffed and the Sheriff standing at his elbow, he sidled up to the payphone and dialed.

"Hey Sammy," he started cheerfully. No need to wake the beast prematurely.

"What did you do, Dean?" came the exasperated answer from the other side of the line. Maybe a little too cheerful.

"I'm a little tied up at the moment and I probably won't be making it back tonight."

"What? Why? Are you in trouble?"

"I'm just working on a case, staking out a joint."

"Dean, I know you're lying. You always roll your r's when you're lying."

"No I don't! I do not roll my r's," he enunciated clearly.

"Dean!"

"Fine. I'm at Central."

"And?" Sam prompted impatiently.

"They're keeping me here for the night."

"Oh my god. You're in jail aren't you?"

Sometimes Dean hated that Sam could read him so well.

"Yea, but it's not a big deal. How was Jess?"

"Don't try to change the subject! Why are you in jail? What happened with Michael? Where's Castiel?"

"He's the one who locked me up here," Dean grumbled.

"Who? Michael or Castiel?"

"Both! Okay? Look, don't worry about it. They can only hold me for twenty-four hours. You should get back to Stanford."

"I'm not just going to leave you in jail and go back to school! Why would Castiel throw you in jail? He seemed to like you."

"Son of a bitch got it in his head that he has to protect me and keeping me here is the best way to do it."

"Well, he is your Guardian," Sam said reasonably.

"Yea! You swoop in and kill all the bad guys. You don't lock them up in a padded cell so they don't hurt themselves!"

"You're in normal jail, right? Not crazy person jail?"

"Yes, Sam, I'm in normal jail. Good to know all those scholarships aren't going to waste."

"Oh shut up. You don't want me to go all lawyer on your sorry ass."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

"Alright," Jody interjected. "Time's up. Back into the cell with you."

It was moderately more comfortable with a layer of clothing on. He'd even annoyed the Sheriff enough that she tossed an HAS newsletter through the bars to keep him occupied. There was an article on new applicant requirements, some radical cult that wanted to cut off the angels' wings was put down in Illinois, an upgrade to the alert system to make it more compatible with Cloud products, minor agenda changes, and a depressing list of obituaries.

Maybe the new type of demon would show up in the next issue. It was hard to believe that everything had happened within a single day, and suddenly Dean was exhausted. He tucked the newsletter under the pillow and fell promptly asleep.

The dream was a familiar one. It was a little swimming hole with a tragic tire swing and a half-collapsed dock. His dad had a hunt somewhere in Idaho and he'd left them in this little cabin for a few weeks during the summer. It was amazing because Sam was happy for once, which probably had something to do with the pretty blond girl who lived half a mile away.

They weren't here though, in his dream. In here it was just Dean and the lazy dragonflies that floated just shy of the water. Except this time, there was someone else. A dark-haired, blue-eyed, grey-winged someone else who made Dean slosh his way up the bank, ignoring the flutter of gossamer wings knocking into his thighs, hands clenched into fists.

"What the fuck are you doing in here?"

"We need to talk."

"You know when would be a great time to talk? When I'm not rotting in the cell where you left me!"

"You are far from rotting, Dean."

"I am not in the mood," he growled darkly. He wouldn't let Cas just hide behind his sarcasm and feigned literality this time.

"I spoke with Zachariah."

"And let me guess," Dean spat out unfairly. "You just ate up every lie he fed you like the good little mutt you are."

That drew a rise out of the angel, his wings fanning out behind him in an aggressive show of shadows and light. "You are infuriating. I understand that you are angry, but I need you to listen!"

"Fine!" Dean threw his hands up before crossing them in front of his chest. "What's so important you had to ruin my dream?"

"Zachariah told me that Michael plans on making you the new Messiah."

"What? Like the new Jesus? That's ridiculous!"

"I agree."

Dean's eyes snapped open in surprise and Cas definitely noticed.

"I am not just some mutt trained to follow every one of Michael's orders, Dean. I only followed the one to place you in holding because I felt it was for your own good."

"But not anymore."

"I don't know. I do not believe Zachariah." The angel swept his eyes over the scene in front of him, pausing at the frayed edges of the tire swing.

"You think he's feeding you a line?" Dean caught his attention again.

"It's possible," Cas nodded. "Even if Michael had plans for you outside the completion of our Bond and your ultimate safety, he would not do something so foolish as creating a false prophet. But I now question what Zachariah's true intentions are in telling me such a lie." A furrow had implanted itself in Castiel's brow and seemed determined in entrenching deeper.

"What?"

"I am debating whether to confront Michael with these accusations."

"No!" Dean hastily grabbed at the edge of the angel's coat, as if he were about to fly out of his head and into the Director's office at that very moment. "Look, Cas. You came to me first, okay? Some gut instinct told you to come to me first and not to Michael because somewhere in that noggin of yours you know there's something not right with all this."

"I am not ruled by gut instinct," the angle bristled, glaring at Dean.

"Okay, then why are you here instead of spilling to the big cheese?"

Castiel blinked once and seemed to sag. "This concerned you. You deserved to know."

"Yea, and you could have just come to my cell and told me in person. But you came into my dream instead. Let me guess," Dean said, mind whirring to grasp at the straws of Castiel's confidence. "No security cameras in my head. No prying eyes or perky ears. Not even the other angels can listen in. You wanted the privacy. You wanted to keep this hidden."

The angel's answering, "Yes," was almost too quiet for Dean to pick up on, but as soon as he heard it, tension that he hadn't even registered seeped out of his bones.

"Ok, so we figure this out together, because like it or not, we're stuck in this mess together." Dean touched the edge of the child's handprint on his arm.

Cas watched in wonder at the mark, his own hand raised in an unconscious mirror of the gesture. "Dean, I-"

The Hunter sat up with a jolt. The plastic tray clattered to the ground, laden with wheat-bread sandwich and styrofoam cup of water. He was tempted to go back to sleep, see what Castiel was going to say, but his stomach protested vehemently.

It had been a long day.


	16. About Babies and Where They Come From

_Author's Notes: Reuploaded because it wasn't showing up O.o_

_Wow this chapter went the complete opposite way of what I'd originally planned for it. I would really like to know what you're opinions are on how the story is progressing, so review please, even if you hate it? More new characters! I never really understood why everyone thought Samandriel was sweet and innocent since I grouped all the angels into two categories: "Castiel and sort of Gabriel" and "the dicks who sat back and didn't do anything to help while Lucifer ran free." Kind of busy this week so didn't get this chapter done until today, so I apologize for any mistakes I didn't catch!_

Castiel shook himself awake and furtively glanced around the storage room. Thankfully no one had come in while he was dreamwalking. Dean was right. For some reason or another, his subconscious didn't want other people know about this. He wasn't sure if it was for his own protection or for theirs.

He wasn't even sure what they needed protection from. Nothing seemed overtly threatening apart from the demons, but demons had always been the enemy. Even if Zachariah was right and Michael wished to frame Dean as a prophet of the Lord, it would be completely impossible without Dean's assent. The resulting power would be entirely placed in Dean's hands, and the Hunter did not seem one to be so easily manipulated into chasing whatever agenda the other angels seemed to have. But what could be the purpose of Zachariah's deception and what exactly had he been offering? Alternately, Michael intentionally mislead Zachariah in his goals. And Castiel could not figure out why the angel assumed that he was covering up Dean's involvement in smiting the demons. Gabriel had brought up the possibility of one specific mole, but at this point, it seemed that there was enough intrigue without the demons' involvement.

He grabbed the ream of paper he'd used as an excuse to escape and hurried back out to the reception area. Victor had put him on what amounted to bureaucratic triage, helping sort through the mountain of requests and complaints that made their way through the door and the phone lines throughout the day.

Dean was a constant hum of irritation and solid steel determination underneath his Grace. Even angels were hampered by sight. At a distance, he would not be able to see the subtle undercurrents to Dean's thoughts and moods but should there be any cause for alarm, he'd sense the need immediately.

As usual, the large room panelled with windows was so crowded that a number of visitors had to stand near the edges, unable to find an empty seat. A pair of familiar speckled wings drew his attention right away.

"Balthazar, what are you doing here?" Castiel asked, striding between the rows of seated people to reach the angel after dropping the paper off at the desk.

"Ah, Cassy! Fancy running into you here," Balthazar grinned and turned to face him. Castiel stopped in his tracks when he saw the bundle in his arms.

"You forgot to use protection," he said flatly.

"You have such little faith in me."

A dark-haired woman got up from one of the plastic seats and slung an arm around Balthazar's shoulder. "I'd say he's got you pegged pretty well, darling. Who's your friend?"

"Ah yes. Pammy, this is Cassy. Cassy, Pammy. And this little munchkin," he gazed adoringly at the tiny face poking out of the swaddling, "Is Samandriel."

"Samandriel?" Castiel didn't recognize it from the canonical angels. But then again Balthazar was named after a human.

"It's a bullshit name," came a cracked voice from behind the Hunter and her Guardian. The criticism came from a smooth-faced teenager. He had a piercing in his lower lip and his left eyebrow as well as several chains hanging from each ear. Kohl-darkened eyes glared at Castiel from where they'd been fixed on a skull-emblazoned cell phone.

"No one asked you, Alfie," Pamela sighed, rolling her eyes for effect.

"My name is Alphonse, Pammy," the teenager spat out, simpering a little at her name.

"And here you have a perfect illustration as to why I am the one holding the child," Balthazar sighed dramatically.

"I believe you should still explain that," Castiel snorted, moving closer so he could peer into the baby's sleeping face. A few tufts of light gray down poked out of the edge of the swaddling blanket. He'd never seen another angel so young. It filled him with a sense of peace that had been absent from his day.

"Alphonse," Balthazar emphasized the name, "was the one to find Samandriel here."

"How?" Castiel asked, looking at the boy.

"I was on my smoke break at the Wiener Hut," Alfie replied, slouching down into the chair so that his head could rest on the low back as he tapped away at his phone. A pile of red and white clothing sat on the floor behind his legs.

"Smoke break?" Pamela laughed. "Oh man, Aunt Carol is going to have your ass."

"No, she's not," Alfie sang, a positively gleeful look on his face. "I still have the pictures from last Thanksgiving."

"What pictures?" Pamela demanded.

"Two words: rice pudding."

The woman blanched. "You didn't."

"Maybe, maybe not. You willing to take that chance?"

"You little-"

"Pamela!" Balthazar interrupted. "Not in front of the child."

"I take it you two are related?" Castiel surmised.

"He's my annoying brat of a cousin," Pamela scoffed. "Thank god or else who knows what he would have done with a kid."

"You know I only called you because I thought it'd be hilarious seeing you try to change a diaper," Alfie sneered.

Castiel almost started a lecture on the bodily functions of angels before deciding this was not the time nor the place. "Have you registered him yet?" he asked instead.

"Not yet. That's why we're here. Gotta get the little guy a home."

"You're not going to try to keep him?" Castiel raised an eyebrow. Balthazar was rather attached to the baby already.

"I'm a free spirit, Cassy. You can't chain me down, even if the shackles are absolutely precious." The angel made a pouty face and muddled the final few words.

Castiel gaped a little at the indulgent baby talk. Pamela seemed to be of the same opinion. "Oh my god, you're turning into a complete wuss on me. First the phony accent, now this."

"I'll have you know I was born and raised in England, thank you very much," Balthazar sniffed.

"Until you were five," Castiel corrected him. "Then you were raised in Kansas."

"Well I couldn't very bloody well be raised in Rome now could I?"

"I don't know what issue you take with the holy city," Castiel sighed and gestured them to an empty office a little ways down the hall.

"That's exactly my problem with Rome. It's far too absorbed in its own sanctity. Kansas has twice as many angels in it and its motto is still per aspera ad astra. What's Rome got? In angelus nos animadverto deus. Pretentious bastards."

Castiel sat behind the desk and switched on the monitor, pulling up the appropriate forms for registering a new angel.

Alfie clomped into the room last, slamming the door closed behind him. He dropped his pile of clothes on the desk unceremoniously. A bright flash of white drew Castiel's eye, strangely bright against the warm red of the uniform. He plucked it out and held it up to the light, watching the edge scatter the harsh fluorescence into a warm halo. It definitely belonged to an angel. No bird's wing would refract light the same way.

"Where did you get this?" he asked a little sharply.

"That? Found it on the ground outside the Hut."

"With the child?"

Alfie screwed up his face. "Maybe? I don't remember. I didn't see it until a bit after."

"Did you see an angel?" he pressed.

"No. Why? Someone you know, feathers?" the teenager taunted with a sneer.

White was a common plumage for angels. Castiel could name seven of his colleagues with white wings off the top of his head. But usually the white was speckled, or had a slight gradient near the base. This feather was pure, lacking any pigmentation whatsoever. And there was only one angel Castiel could think of with wings like that.

He handed a tablet over to Pamela to fill in their information.

The only reason that Michael could have of leaving a fledgling to be found by humans rather than bringing it directly to headquarters would be if he didn't want anyone to know he was the one to find it. But it was a great honor from their Father to be chosen to bear witness to the creation of a new angel. And if Michael truly was hiding, it was extremely careless of him to leave behind a feather. Angels didn't molt like birds. The only way a feather could be dislodged would be to physically pull it out.

Balthazar and Pamela were quibbling about who's last name to put on the forms. Alfie was dead set on making the child's last name "the Destroyer" to make up for the "goofy angel name." Samandriel the Destroyer, however, sounded just as ridiculous to Castiel.

"Fine, you infuriating woman!" Balthazar finally yelled, startling the baby angel who did not cry but stared at his quivering wings with wide, washed-out eyes.

It was another twenty minutes before the Balthazar, Pamela, and Alfie walked out of his office with the newly christened Samandriel Barnes tucked into the crook of the other angel's arm. It was incredibly easy to get him to agree to care for the baby until a more permanent arrangement could be made.

The next few hours passed with little consequence. Castiel was recruited to research a string of disappearances in Nebraska that turned out to be the work of a trio of poltergeists. The work was familiar, but lacked the distinct rush that came with field work. Castiel was loathe to admit he had become slightly addicted. Being stuck inside a building was more stifling than he remembered it had been one short year ago.

It was half past midnight, when the trickle of humans through the front doors had slowed to a dead halt that Castiel felt the tug of anger from the slight trickle of Dean's soul. He had thought it strange that the Hunter had yet to sleep, but assumed it was just the man's habit to take to bed late. Now, however, there was definitely something wrong. He stretched out his wings and a moment later stood outside the cell.

A nervous man shifted uncertainly over a large plastic tub filled with an assortment of weapons and clothing. Michael stood impassively near the wall while Zachariah smirked while holding a bag of fine white powder.

"You dicks!" Dean yelled, hands clenched around the bars of his cell. "You planted that in there! Chuck, read Sheriff Mills' report. She would have put it in the intake forms if she'd found cocaine on me."

"It um," the man, presumably Chuck, mumbled. "It is in the report. His eyes darted between the caged Hunter and the other two angels before locking onto the floor between his toes."

"That's wrong. Call her up! She'll tell you," Dean demanded.

"What is going on?" Castiel asked.

"Ah, Castiel," Zachariah sighed. "It seems your charge has gotten into some bad habits." He shook the plastic baggie that flashed pink and green in the light. "He's doing cocaine."

"Dean does not use narcotics. I would have sensed it in his system," Castiel told them. It was a ridiculous accusation.

"Then maybe he's intending to distribute? The sentence for that is far longer," Zachariah mused.

"That's bullshit and you know it!" Dean growled impotently.

"He is telling the truth," Castiel ascertained. "There is no deception in his soul."

If anything, that made Zachariah grin wider. "Castiel, are you aiding and abetting a criminal? As an angel of the lord, you must know it is a grave offense to lie to your superiors."

"I am not lying," Castiel said sternly, though now he felt the cold dread that he was missing something important.

"Well, I say that you are. The drugs were found in Agent Winchester's possessions by both the intaking officer and myself. Mr. Shurley here has born witness. You should know better than to fight wars you can not win," the angel tisked, tossing the bag back into the bin. "Castiel, I charge you and Agent Winchester with intent to distribute illegal substances."

"You don't have the authority to do that," Castiel said, keeping his voice calm though his wings quivered in his effort to restrain them.

"No, he doesn't, but I do," Michael spoke for the first time. "I am very disappointed in you Castiel. I was hoping that you and Agent Winchester would be an example of the epitome of what human-angel cooperation can achieve."

Castiel felt the disturbance in the air as two angels fluttered down behind him, each of them taking one of his arms. He was too stunned to struggle, his mind running through a dozen scenarios as to why the Director was keeping them imprisoned and Zachariah's involvement in all of this.

"Garage 4C has been prepared. Take Castiel there and report back to me." He was utterly bewildered. Angels were never imprisoned, even if they broke some human law, which was rare. They did not lack for money or food or shelter. They did not lust for territory or power. Those were human vices, human crimes, human laws, human punishments.

His mouth went dry when he realized where they'd brought him. The wide open concrete structure was painted with the yellow lines designating parking spots, but no cars filled the room. Instead, a streak of glistening oil painted a complete circle ten meters in diameter.

"No, please," he said hoarsely. "This is a mistake!" But the strong arms that kept him trapped hauled him into the center before a wall of flame surrounded them. Two thin planks plopped down at one edge and the two angels stepped gingerly over them, avoiding the flames. Castiel rushed after them, but pulled up short when the planks disappeared, leaving him imprisoned by holy fire.

Zachariah nodded as the two angels departed before turning his attention back to Castiel. "This is a game you can not win, simply because you don't know the rules. You have to pick a team, Castiel, and you need to pick wisely. I suggest you think on that in your time here, or who knows when you'll get out?"

His final image of the angel was the unnatural white of his teeth, peering out behind thin lips.

They'd left him nothing in his private little jail, nothing to use to break the circle. The flames leapt in a lively dance around him, casting the cool concrete in hellish shades of orange and red. He drew his wings close to his body, though they had left him enough room to spread out.

For now, all he could do, was wait for Dean to sleep.


	17. Meanwhile Chuck Hides in the Supply Room

_Author's Notes: Hope you guys don't mind some backstory before the kiddies get some action next chapter! I promise that the stuff in this chapter is important later._

Dean slammed his fists against the wall. It was just as impotent an action as it had been the last dozen times. He had hoped, after that last little chat with Cas, that the angel would come around and get him the hell out of here. Well, the stupid bastard sure as hell wouldn't be trusting Michael now. It was just a little too late for both of them.

Chuck hadn't shown his face again after the angels left, having chosen instead to scurry into the back mumbling something about inventories and toilet paper. So instead of glaring at the timid deputy, Dean had been left to pace the twenty-square feet of the holding cell.

There wasn't anything he could do for himself, much less for Castiel. Would Zachariah go so far as to actually file a case against him? Having a convicted drug dealer, no matter how bogus the evidence, wouldn't look good on Sam's record, especially if he was going into law.

Ifhe even made it that far. If Michael really wanted him to play some god-child, how far would he be willing to go to ensure his cooperation? A day ago he wouldn't have even considered the Director of the HAS using threats to coerce humans into doing what he wanted. And it might not even just stop at Sam. There was Bobby and Ellen and Jo and an entire slew of people he cared about blissfully unaware down in South. He could feel the air struggling into his lungs and he forced himself to sit down. This wasn't the time to freak out. He had to stay calm for their sakes and find a way out. The cot shook slightly as he sprawled on top of the blanket.

There was no Winchester curse, he reminded himself, over and over again in his head. Just because his dad had lost his wife, his partner, his girlfriend, his son, and his self to demon scum didn't mean it was some genetic disposition to having a life that sucked. But it was days like this that made him think that a teenaged Sam had been right, that they'd spend their entire lives trying to outrun whatever bad juju had attached itself to their bloodline. They didn't have to outrun the werewolves and vampires and ghosts. He had dedicated his life to destroying them before they could give chase to anyone who couldn't.

The question now was whether or not he could outrun the angels.

Unfortunately the only thing he could think of that could outrun an angel was another angel.

He really needed a beer. No, he really needed something a bit stronger than beer. Reason number infinity and one as to why he hated being in jail, he thought with bitter humor. Not that he should even be in jail.

Maybe the demons had the right idea. He should be arming himself with spray cans filled with holy oil instead of silver knives and iron daggers. He would just have to find some. The angels had sucked the holy lands dry decades ago, and no one knew where the demons were getting their stash. Bobby had been looking into a few years back but Dean hadn't really paid attention, too focused on getting his ass into the Academy with a GED and a lifetime's worth of real-world experience. If there was anything worth knowing about angels, though, Bobby would know. He needed to get Sam down there.

No, what he really needs was to get out of this hole. Grab Sam, grab the Impala, and drive. Their dad had managed to keep off the radar for almost a decade before biting the dust. Dean grimaced at the memory of the day the demons finally got the better of John Winchester. When he finally drifted off, it was with the images of his dad's guts slopping out of his stomach painting the backs of his eyelids.

He was back in the middle of that shopping outlet outside Omaha, looking for the demon with yellow eyes, seventeen and too stupid to realize that demons didn't have yellow eyes. No, their eyes were always pitch black, like those of the demon hovering of their dad, turning his stomach into confetti. Dean fought back the urge to puke because he had more important things to do than relive his lunch. He had to get Sam out of there because Sam was choking out the words to an exorcism between sobbing and screaming, his little body poised to lunge at the creature.

This was the moment when he knew for a fact that his dad had lied to him, that they weren't under cover, because if his father was really still a Hunter, an Angel should be there, should be raining down righteous fury while the Winchesters stood back and watched. A twelve year old wouldn't be watching his dad getting torn apart in front of him. It was bad enough when Kate and Adam died. Sam didn't need this as well.

But when Dean picked Sam up and turned to run, the restaurant wasn't empty like it should have been. Instead, there was an angel with blue eyes and gray wings and Dean sobbed in relief.

"Help him!" he screamed, but the angel didn't move, just looked at Dean with something that looked too much like pity.

"Dean," the angel said, finally walking forward, but his eyes were fixed on Dean, not the demon. It was wrong, all of this was wrong. There hadn't been an angel. There hadn't been salvation. And Dean wasn't seventeen, he was twenty-six and Sam was a floppy-haired giant learning how to put criminals behind bars.

Like they'd put Dean behind bars. Like Castiel had put Dean behind bars.

"Castiel," he snarled. He could feel every ounce of anger towards the angels he'd had that day nine years ago pressed into the shape of the angel's name. His arms were suddenly devoid of flailing teenager and his body took that moment to react. His right first swung out before he'd even registered their vacancy.

"Dean," the angel repeated without an ounce of hesitation, snagging his wrist not an inch from his jawline. Castiel was smug and certain even after having been proven so horribly wrong. Well the feathery bastard had finally gone and gotten his wings singed and they were both screwed ten ways to hell. Dean's arm went limp in the angel's grip and fell to his side when Castiel let go. "This is your father's death," the angel said wearily, glancing around the dream space even as it faded away into flat gray.

"It's none of your business." Dean couldn't keep a slight snag from his voice. He was still breathing heavily and his heart was still thudding loudly against his chest. "Well?" he prompted when the angel just stood there, head cocked and frowning.

"I am unsure how to proceed," he admitted. "It is difficult to understand you in your dreams. I am unable to see your soul."

"Yea well, welcome to the level playing field," Dean took a step back, spreading his arms to the darkening edges of the flat plain around them.

Castiel looked across the sweeping expanse of nothing and nodded, like Dean hadn't been mocking him. "I have been imprisoned in a ring of holy fire." His wings drooped, streaking lines of black soot against the ground that faded into the gray. "Zachariah intimated that he would release me if I aided his farce."

"What? The messiah thing? I thought you said he was lying."

"As I did. But now I am," the angel paused, his tongue flicking out to wet his lips. "Uncertain. About Zachariah, about Michael." His wings twitched against the ground and the shadows under his eyes seemed to darken in this washed out lighting. The guy looked tired, droopy and softer than he'd ever seen him before. "I should not have imprisoned you."

"Not gonna get any arguments here," Dean snorted shakily. They stood in uncomfortable silence for a moment before Dean couldn't take it anymore. He picked a spot on the horizon and started walking, and not a second passed before he could hear the rustle of wings as the angel followed.

"Why'd they lock you up anyways? Something happen?"

"Many things happened, but nothing that would warrant this reaction." Cas had his wings held strictly against his back, his strides long and steady, his face set in a hard mask. Dean was fairly impressed with the transformation. It was something his dad would have approved of.

"Ok," he nodded. "What about the other stuff? Anything that stands out, even if its not something that would land you in a burning ring of fire?"

The angel crinkled his nose slightly, but didn't break stride. "There was a news report of a mine collapse in Bolivia. One hundred thirty-two miners were killed."

"That sucks, but we gotta try for something closer to home, unless one of those miners is your long lost evil twin brother."

"That is impossible," Castiel said solemnly. "Angels do not have twins, nor would an angel work as a miner, nor would an angel be killed by a collapsing tunnel."

Dean shot a glare over his shoulder. "Focus," he snapped with no real fire. He was too worn out to be angry, even in his head.

"Balthazar came to register the new fledgling."

"Wait," Dean halted in his step. "His girl really was pregnant with a baby angel?"

"Of course not," Castiel scowled. "Her cousin, Alphonse, found the fledgling outside his place of work." The angel's eyes went wide in realization. "Alphonse also found an angel feather."

"The baby's?"

"No. It was long and pure white."

Dean's mind shot to the only angel with pure white feathers that he could remember seeing. "Michael's?"

"It's possible," Cas replied carefully. "Even if it were, I don't know what the significance would be."

"Of the director stalking some Hunter's cousin? Me neither," Dean sighed and ran a hand over his face. "We seriously need to get out of here. Can you get a word out to someone for me? Go calling in their head?"

"Dean, I am only capable of entering your dreams because of the Bond." The Hunter grimaced. He knew that. This was back to HAS basics, and the angel seemed to know as well by the frown on his face.

"Alright, then what the fuck are we supposed to do? They're not following procedure on this, so I'd bet my car that they're not going to give me any more phone calls."

"You called someone." The angel got a speculative look on his face.

"Yea. I let Sam know I wouldn't be making it back to the motel tonight."

"He knows you're in prison?"

"Yes!" Dean's eyes lit up. When he wouldn't call the next day, Sam would have to figure out something was wrong. 'In an emergency, go to Bobby' was practically carved into the kid's ribs since he could understand speech.

"Dean," Cas interrupted, stern look on his face. "Do Zachariah or Michael know that you called Sam."

He thought back to the phone call. Jody was the only one who actually saw him, but she had to have logged it into the system. "Fuck," he cursed quietly. "You think they'll go after him?"

To his relief, the angel shook his head. "They would not take overt action, though it is possible they have him monitored in case he tries to get you out."

"Fuck," he repeated. Maybe his first instinct to have Sam go back to Stanford had been right. Michael would probably discount him as a threat from all the way in California. Hopefully his brother took that advice and had left. "We gotta get the hell out of here."

"That is unlikely."

"Gee, thanks Mr. Brightside," Dean scowled. "How about you stow that attitude for a few minutes and figure out what we're going to do to get out of this mess."

"They disabled the sprinkler system in the garage, but if someone were to manually restart it, it would put out the flames."

"Ok, and how would I do that?" Dean asked without much hope. The angel didn't seem all that excited about the suggestion.

"You couldn't. You need authorization to enter the system and a passcode for emergency override."

"Great. You got anything else?"

"An earthquake could shake apart the structures we are being held in."

"We're in Kansas. Try again."

"God."

Dean couldn't help but laugh at that one. "Fine. Go back to the sprinklers. Who would have something like that?"

"The director, the deputy director, the chief, the deputy chief, the building manager, the safety director," Cas rumbled out.

"The sheriff?" Dean tried.

"Yes, that is likely. And the deputy sheriff." There's a pause before the angel asks, "What are you thinking?"

"Nothing yet, but it'll come to me." There was no way that he could get Jody to just let Cas out without something earth-moving. There wasn't even a guarantee that he would still be here when the sheriff's next shift came about. But Winchesters had made an art of clinging to a thread of hope and weaving a plan out of it.

Castiel seemed accept this, giving a small nod of his head. "You should rest."

"Dude, I'm asleep," he snapped. The angel hadn't earned the right to know what he should do, no matter what Sam thought about Guardians.

"Your body is, but your brain is not, not while I am here. I will contact you again tomorrow. Good night, Dean."

The angel disappeared, leaving Dean in the gray space of his mind. He didn't know how long it took for it to fade to black.


	18. Outside the Spellbounds of Physics

_Author's Notes: Let's pretend I live on the west coast and this was posted on Saturday. This last week has been hell so 90% of this chapter was written within the last few hours. Ass-kicking, death, and grammatical errors abound! And as always, thanks for reading!_

The fire around him burned silently, tame and steady. It wasn't a real fire, for it gave off no heat. A child could step upon the slithering tongues and come to no harm. To them, it was nothing but a pretty light, shadowing the concrete in red and gold. If he didn't look up, he'd barely notice it under the fluorescent lights. They made the holy fire all too easy to forget.

With a satisfying click, the cell phone restarted, blinking a lazy blue screen up at Castiel. He had stripped away the animations and sounds, digging into the code underneath, trying to get past the lockdown they'd placed on his service.

The phone erupted into a chain of shrill beeps as message after message popped up onto the screen. Castiel hastily shoved the speaker under his arms, muffling the noise until the chain of missed alerts exhausted themselves. He felt his heart pound in the ensuing silence, waiting for the telltale sound of hostile wings. When he dialed Balthazar's number, the automated voice of the Central operating hold recording told him monotonously to dial 777 for supernatural-related emergencies.

He squashed the flare of frustration that threatened to cloud his mind. He'd been at this for hours now, but having the alert system back online was better than nothing. If something could make its way in, then something could make its way out. Passing curiosity compelled him to flick though the two pages of notes. There were the usual smattering of werewolves and vampires. A few scattered demon attacks caught his eye. It wasn't as many as usual but it wasn't the radio silence Gabriel had mentioned.

Then, caught between a ghost in Idaho and a chupacabra in Texas, was a single line of even text.

_06:21 Anna Milton found dead on Rio Balsas._

Castiel tapped on the announcement but there was no bulletin attached. Six words were all that were given to Anna's death. In the past year he'd worked on two of Anna's cases, though he'd never met her. She operated primarily in South and Central America, venturing only as far north as Texas. Her reputation, though, had made its way across the entire network of angels.

Anna had been found by a Mrs. Margaery Milton, a religious woman who'd just suffered her second miscarriage when she came across the fledgling. It wasn't until Anna was five years old and brought to the local kindergarten that someone called 777 to report a winged child. Mrs. Margaery Milton was still languishing in a prison cell in Brazil.

But Anna had grown up to become the perfect example of angelic duty. She had an impeccable record without losing a single life in her decade of service. Until now.

Castiel said a swift prayer to her Grace, wishing her success in the endless battle on the celestial planes, and returned to his work. The operating capabilities of his phone were severely limiting, so despite working on the backend of the security system for several weeks, he couldn't crack his own codes. His own competence was incredibly frustrating.

He rubbed his knuckles absent-mindedly. Earlier attempts to claw through the flooring to reach the sprinkler system had left him with a layer of bloody concrete on his hands and a small pothole by his right shoe.

Perhaps enlarging that dent would be a worthier pursuit than accessing the communications network.

But as he began to contemplate a repeated attack against the floor, his phone trilled sharply, the sound echoing off the concrete walls in eerie succession.

_Class 5 Alert 003: confirmed 121 demons, Delhi, India_

Castiel's wings shot up ineffectually within the ring of fire that kept him bound to the ground. Delhi, the largest city in terms of area and second most populous metropolis area in India, eighth most populous metropolis area in the world, estimated 16 million people. A series of facts streamed through his head, each as useless as the last, each serving no other purpose than to raise his anxiety.

His phone beeped again.

_Class 5 Alert 003: confirmed 126 demons, Delhi, India. 125 active. 1 deceased._

He eyed the ring of fire around him contemplatively. The only thing that could put it out was holy water, but if he could block it, diminish its strength, he might be able to barge through it without dying.

_Class 5 Alert 003: confirmed 131 demons, Delhi, India. 119 active, 12 deceased._

If all the angels heeded the call, they would outnumber the demons three to one, but that was assuming there were no errant alerts in other areas to hold their attention. While demonic activity was supposed to be an angel's first priority, should one of their charges be in immediate danger from another supernatural source, their guardian would not abandon them.

He needed something solid and thick. The ends of two lighting fixtures extended into the ring of fire. If he could pry the metal casinsg out of the ceiling, they might form a bridge thick enough to keep him safe. But the fire kept him grounded and nothing came to mind except throwing his shoes repeatedly against the ceiling which sounded insane even in his own mind.

His thoughts ground to an abrupt stop, however, as the red emergency lights blinked on and he allowed himself a moment of hope before the hiss of the sprinklers came to life. The flames sputtered and spat for a minute before they were fought down by the holy water. Castiel stretched his wings, ready for flight, when another alert arrived.

_Class 5 Alert 003: confirmed 132 demons, Delhi, India. 114 active, 18 deceased._

Suddenly the water was not what chilled his bones. He couldn't place his finger on it, but the number seemed significant. One hundred thirty-two. Miners killed in a collapsed tunnel in Bolivia. Something wasn't right. He blinked up at the sprinklers.

There were only three possible ways for the sprinklers to be activated. One, the smoke detectors were triggered. Two, the presence of demons had been detected. Three, someone had used the override codes.

A fire seemed too convenient. More and more the attack in India sounded like a ruse. Neither of the other two possibilities boded well for Central. Or Dean. He cursed himself for not thinking of the Hunter earlier, too distracted by the massive attack in India. Now that he was focused, he could feel the waves of distress coming from his charge and he threw himself through the floors to land just outside the holding cell.

"Cas!" The hunter was half-shielded behind the trembling wings of Zachariah.

"Castiel," the angel gasped out, blinking bloody eyes at him. The spray from the sprinklers caused streaks of pink to run down his face. One arm was a mess, dangling limply at his side. His other hand clenched around a pistol.

"An angel," someone muttered from his other side.

He glanced quickly around the rest of the room. A body slumped across the desk, the angle of its limbs so unnatural that it could be nothing but a corpse. The green of the sheriff's uniform was rendered nearly black by the water.

"Why isn't he in India?" another voice snarled.

There were three figures standing strong and solid in the center of the room. They were completely unfazed by the holy water streaming down their faces, but Castiel knew in an instant that they were demons. The darkness of their presence was something he could never mistake for anything even vaguely human.

The room was cast in a strange glow of blue from the open windows and red from the emergency lights, so its difficult to determine colors, but when one of the demons shifts to the balls of its feet, Castiel caught an unmistakable flash of yellow where there should be nothing but black in its eyes. For a moment the only rational explanation his mind could come up with was that this was all just a dream. Maybe he was still six years old and trapped in bed, feverish and uncomprehending of the world around him.

The sting of the knife as it cut into his shoulder jerked him back to the present. Even if this were a dream, he didn't wish to learn what happened when you died in one.

Zachariah and another demon were tangled together in a battle of strength, each trying to wrestle the other to the floor. He didn't have time to wonder why he didn't simply burn the demon out. Even outnumbered three to one, this should not have been a problem for an angel.

Castiel pulled at his own grace, careful not to touch his bond with Dean. He felt the familiar strain as it seeped out from his palms, but nothing happened to the demon in front of him, not even a flinch.

"Someone get me the fuck out of here!" Dean yelled, slamming his fists against the bars.

"Hypocrite," another demon growled as it slammed the butt of its gun between Zachariah's shoulder blades. The angel whipped around, hitting the demon square in the chest with a wing, sending it crashing to the ground.

Castiel was thankful for the close quarters as he dodged under the third demon's raised arm, tugging it so that the gun in its hand pointed only at the floor. He flapped a wing in its face, blinding it before slamming the both of them back against a desk.

"Come on, come on!" Dean clamored from inside his cage. He desperately wanted to get his charge away from Central, away from the demons and Michael and Zachariah, but he would not leave the other angel to a losing battle, no matter his own distaste.

The demon grabbed a handful of his feathers and yanked, sending searing pain down through the joints to his back

"Michael!" Castiel barely recognized Zachariah's voice as it screamed the Director's name. "Michael!"

He didn't think before thrashing his wings up and away, dragging the demon a few feet before his feathers were ripped out. The pain distracted him, but only for a moment. The demon was disoriented, stumbling forward, grey feathers still clutched in its hand. Castiel swung his wings in an arc, swiping the demon's back, sending it sprawling to the floor.

Everything was a delaying tactic, buying time for him to figure out a more permanent solution. Two more demons ran into the room, brandishing guns.

"You have to trap them!" Dean yelled from behind him.

Except the devil traps were completely useless. He didn't have time to figure out why or design a new one that would hold. Dean rattled the bars to his cell and a demon snarled at the Hunter. They were obviously here for him, like the ones outside the motel. Except if they weren't repelled by the normal salt lines or affected by the devil traps and yet somehow Dean was still alive and kicking.

These demons couldn't fly.

He could trap them, not with spells or sigils, but with simple iron and steel.

"Michael!" Zachariah screamed again and a gunshot went off, but Castiel didn't take the time to see who had fired or if anyone had been hit.

He grabbed the demon on the floor and flung them into Dean's cell. Their momentum carried them into the cinder block wall. Something shattered with a sickening crunch and it took a moment for him to realize it was the demon's arm and not his own.

Before he could recover from the shock, a flash of light lit up the entire room, draining all color from the world for a brief moment. Unmistakable white wings cut through the air as a glowing hand thrust itself into a demon's face. The creatures screamed in agony as it clutched at the Director's arms.

"Michael," the demon standing over Zachariah's prone form spat out, its eyes narrowed and its mouth curled in disgust.  
Castiel didn't wait to see the angel's response, he slammed the demon in the cell against the wall a second time before dropping it onto the ground. In the next moment, Dean was in his grip and the two of them ran.

"Yellow eyes," Dean gasped as they landed in a cloud of dust. The hunter was shaking. Or Castiel was shaking. He couldn't be sure. The energy of the fight seeped away, leaving his knees weak.

"I don't understand," he said numbly, and his own voice sounded miles away.

"Zachariah had red eyes," Dean choked. "And the demons had yellow eyes."

He'd thought it was blood at the time. "He couldn't," he protested weakly. He stumbled over to a tree and ended up kneeling at its base. The ground was slightly damp and all around him waved row after row of sunflowers, eerily calm in the waning light.

Somewhere in India, a hundred and thirty two black-eyed demons died. In Kansas, five had yellow eyes and one had red.


	19. On the Exploration of Abandonment

Dean Winchester did not sit around waiting for flighty angels to get their asses back to HQ. There was an itch in his bones that could only be scratched by picking a destination and doing his damnedest to get there. If he sat here for one my day, one more hour, he was going to drive himself insane thinking about demons and yellow eyes.

For all the Italian leather couches and 82" LCDs in Gabriel's house of hedonistic pleasures, there wasn't a single laptop, phone, car, or even bike. Hell, he would have settled for a scooter. With rainbow tassels. He almost wished it was still the 80s when landlines hadn't been relegated to the realm of folklore, not that there was anyone he could really risk calling.

Castiel had left him for ten minutes at a gas station to ring up Sam, find out that he was halfway to Austin in the Impala, chew him a new one for not heading back to Stanford, and extract a promise that he'd stay with Bobby and away from any feathery bastards until whatever this was blew over. Then his own feathery bastard plopped him right back in the big yellow house and the sunflower fields that looked straight out of a Van Gogh painting.

Three days of rummaging through the place had ended with him sneaking out in nothing but a felon's t-shirt, sweatpants, and a pair of cowboy boots found in a closet that held absolutely nothing else a sane person could wear on a day other than Halloween. Gabriel was one messed up little angel. And he was surrounded by bright yellow flowers.

The fact that Van Gogh had been so crazy he'd chopped off an ear made him feel slightly better about the situation.

He wasn't really surprised when he caught a blur of steely gray out of the corner of his eye as he trudged down the dirt path.

"Dean," the angel said in his stupidly deep voice.

"Just going for a walk, Cas."

"You should return to the house. It is unsafe for you to be exposed." The angel's steps sped up a little so that he was almost directly in front of Dean, like he was some dumb sheep that had to be herded away from the edge of a cliff.

"You know what, Cas?" he snarled, stopping abruptly. "I've been taking care of myself for a while now and I don't need you or anyone else telling me what I can or can't handle. I'm not some idiot who's going to walk into a demon nest wearing a giant fucking target on my back so you can fuck off to wherever the hell you were before." His chest heaved as he gulped down air like he'd been running for miles, not yelling for less than a minute. Everything hurt. No, not everything. It was just his ribs. He'd run out of medication earlier that morning.

The angel frowned at him, staring like Dean had just said something in Swahili. Except the damned angel probably understood Swahili. Well if the angel wasn't fazed, then neither was he. No way in hell he would be the one backing down on this.

Gray wings twitched and lifted, like the bastard was just going to leave, like he was just going to run away, and that more than anything made the rage bubble back up.

"So that's it, huh?"

"You wanted me to leave," the angel reminded him.

"And you're going to do what I say? Just like that?" This time Dean was fully conscious that he was just contradicting himself, but he barrelled on. "You're just going to let me waltz on out of here?" A part of him screamed at him to shut up, to just let Cas flutter off so he could get back to the business of getting the hell out of the middle of Sunshine Meadows. His mouth, though, wasn't listening to that part of him. "Or were you just going to pop up behind me and drag me back to a different cage of your choosing? Why the hell are you even here, Cas?"

The angel looked affronted, eyes wide and chin pulled up. "You're scared."

Dean took a step back. Of all the things he expected the angel to say at that moment, that had not even crossed his mind.

"You," the angel tilted his head, staring somewhere in the vicinity of Dean's ribs. "You are frightened of demons?"

"What? Fuck no! Get the hell out of my head! If you're going to read my mind at least read it right."

"I am not invading your thoughts," the angel sighed. "Your fear is clearly presented on your soul." The angel got a thoughtful look on his face that made Dean uneasy, like whatever was going to come out of his mouth was not going to be horrifying but creatively horrifying. Suddenly, the air in front of him was empty, a swirl of dust on the ground the only indication that an angel had once stood there.

Dean opened his mouth to curse or yell or something, but then Cas was back, looking utterly bewildered.

"You are frightened by my departure."

"Well yea. Someone standing in front of you suddenly disappears? It ain't normal," Dean groused, scratching at the scar on his arm. The shape of the tiny hand was becoming just as familiar as the spots had been. He knew full-well that wasn't what Castiel meant. But in his defense, bad things tended to happen when the angel left, things like cardiac arrest and demon attacks and losing five years of his freaking memory. Hell, it was a pavlovian response by now to associate the angel's departure with unhappy hour.

"I see," said angel intoned slowly, confused look still fixed firmly over his features.

"What do you want, Cas?" Dean grumbled again, and that seemed to snap the guardian out of whatever train of thought that had been crashing through his mind.

"Looking for Gabriel is turning into a waste of time," he declared, giving himself a slight nod. "I left him a message indicating our whereabouts."

"You got your phone working?"

The angel actually blushed, though he didn't stop that weirdly intense staring thing he had going. "The Hamiltons have an unlimited long distance telephone plan."

"Son of a bitch," Dean grinned. "You broke into someone's house to use their phone? Gotta say Cas, didn't figure you the breaking and entering type." He started back down the dirt road.

"I did not break anything," the angel bristled and followed at an unhurried pace though Dean was sure he was a few inches taller.

"Fine. Whatever. So that it? You came to regale me with your life of crime?"

The angel narrowed his eyes but didn't rise to the bait. "I believe the next step should be to capture and interrogate a demon."

Dean almost laughed, but Cas looked so serious that he wasn't sure if this was one of his poorly executed jokes or an actual plan of action. If the latter, the angel had clearly lost his marbles. He threw his hands up and rounded on the angel.

"What the fuck, Cas? I thought the whole point of this little exercise was to stay as far away from demons as we can!"

"We do not know why the demons are so intent on you. Perhaps if we had more information, we could remove their interest," the angel said reasonably.

"But interrogating a demon? You gotta know that sounds batshit insane."

"Who else?" the angel shot back, glaring like Dean had offended his eyeballs.

"I don't know! What about Gabriel?"

"While Gabriel may be inclined to help us, it is unlikely he is closely associated with demon strategies and motives." Cas sounded just a tad shy of sarcastic. Dean felt strangely smug about that. Underneath the metric ton of pissed off, that is.

"So what? You're going to waltz up to some demon and ask politely? Last time I checked you didn't have any juice, Cas."

This time it was the angel that started walking, eyes fixed at some point in the distance. "There are other methods to control a demon."

"Right, because you've had such a great track record with demons so far. You can't even fix my stinking ribs!" Dean yelled at the guardian's back. The massive wings fluttered closed, stiff and formal against the tan coat.

"Fuck," he cursed quietly before he ran to catch up.

"Look," he started, rubbing his arm and still trying to arrange something coherent in his head. "If there's anyone who gets it, it's gotta be a human, right? We come up against shit that we can't do anything about all the freaking time and it sucks. No one wants to be the damsel in distress, sit back, and just take it. But that doesn't mean you just do whatever the fuck pops up into your head either."

He took a breath and looked over at the angel. He didn't look particularly moved by Dean's speech. At least the guy was still there and hadn't winged it to the closest Demons-R-Us.

"It is different for an angel who can do nothing," came his gruff voice. "We are not meant to be able to do nothing. We are warriors of God. This is our purpose here on earth."

"Whoa, who said anything about doing nothing? We should just think about it first." Dean could practically hear Sam cackling in the background at the words coming out of his own mouth.

He pulled up short as the angel came to a stop. The dirt pathway they had been walking down ended here, connecting to another small backcountry road, though this one was at least paved with gravel. The rocks under his cowboy boots shifted gently as he swayed forward, looking towards either side. Monstrous palm trees towered above aged ferns along the other side of the road.

"Where in the world are we anyways?"

"Thailand."

Dean gaped. "Thailand," he repeated dumbly. He hadn't even been to Mexico and he lived four hours away.

"Approximately sixty miles north-northwest of Bangkok," Castiel addended. It meant jack squat to Dean.

"Why are we in freaking Thailand?" he exploded. That meant that even if he had managed to walk his way out of there, he'd be in the middle of freaking nowhere in the middle of freaking Thailand in the middle of freaking southeast Asia. He kicked the largest chunk of gravel he could find, sending it flying over the rough-hewn wooden fence into the trunk of an unyielding palm. He forced himself to feel satisfaction.

"Of the habitable areas of the world, the angelic network is the sparsest in southeast Asia," Castiel explained. "Large sects of the population here still practice buddhism, hinduism, and atheism."

"Thanks, Mr. Carver," Dean muttered. At the angel's questioning look, he added, "History teacher, tenth grade. Wore his mustache like a weapon."  
Castiel looked faintly worried.

"No! Not going to distract me." The angel opened his mouth to speak but Dean cut him off. "How are we going to do this demon thing?"

"I thought you didn't want to do this demon thing," the angel parsed the final words carefully.

"Yea well, figure you'd just do it without me and two fugitives are better than one right?" In truth, any half-formed plans of his own had flown out the window as soon as the word 'Thailand' had left the angel's mouth. All of them had hinged on him standing on English-speaking soil of the beltway and boardwalk variety.

And if really hard pressed, he might admit that this was their best shot and figuring out what the hell was going on. Somewhere Dean had found the dregs of self-preservation. They were bitter and lacking.

"I must first locate a demon. Then I plan on using a modified devil's trap along with holy water to convince the demon to talk."

"Dude," Dean caught the angel's arm. "You're going to torture the demon?"

"Of course. I do not expect the demon to speak freely, and I have nothing to offer in exchange."

"Whoa, slow down. A. Demons are scum of the earth but torture? That's just sick. Two. Even if you had a soul, you are not going to exchange it for information of all things. And C. What's with all this 'I' crap? 'I' this, 'I' that? What happened to working together on this?"

"It is not safe for you to accompany me."

Dean had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from hitting the dumb son of a bitch. They had just meandered in a giant circle to end up back at square one.

"Ok, that is crap and you know it. It is just as dangerous for you as it is for me. What if it gets loose? The only way you could kill them last time was to use my soul. My soul. So yea, you need me there, because like hell you're pulling it when I'm not even there." The angel opened his mouth, but paused, as if having a hard time figuring out what part of Dean's little rant to chew out. He takes the opening faster than a fresh pie on a windowsill. "And second of all, we do have something to trade."

Castiel frowned, not quite following, even as the hunter leaned in close to rummage through the trench coat pockets. Dean grinned triumphantly as his fingers closed around the body-warm piece of metal and plastic.

"Twenty-four seven access to the angelic bulletin board," he announced, holding up the cell phone. "Stay one step ahead of the feathered dick squad for all your soul-sucking needs."

"Dean," Cas scowled, "We can't give a demon access to the alert system."

"Of course not," Dean rolled his eyes, tossing the phone back to Castiel. "You can rig the thing right? Make it repeat alerts from a year ago or something? Set it to self-destruct?"

The angel regarded the device thoughtfully before looking back up at Dean, faint smile on his lips. It was a little shocking after seeing the guy frown for so long.

"Yes, that may work."


	20. Plus A Sharpie

_Author's Notes:__This is the first of two chapters of material that I'd originally cut from between chapters 19 and 20, but later decided to put back because I'm writing new chapters like this has happened. There's also quite a bit of back story and random details about the world that are only important if you have a keen eye for plot holes._

Even on the outskirts of a small hamlet in Spain, the church was impressive, rising from the ground like a solid white monolith, fine gold scrollwork spilling over the lintels and sills, glinting feverishly in the sunlight. On the inside, the high ceiling were covered in glass mosaics of angels, dressed in their blue uniforms, white light spilling from their palms. Their wings ran the entire spectrum of precious metals, gold, copper, silver, bronze. There was even one with wings of mother of pearl. His own plumage seemed dull by comparison.

Nevertheless, the priest's eyes widened and filled with unshed tears when Castiel walked through the door, wings held high. He'd chosen this place for its recent history of peace. No demons had troubled the area for eight years, now. This would be the first time the tiny parish had seen an angel in nearly a decade.

"Bendito sea el Dios y Padre de nuestro Señor Jesucristo," the elderly man whispered, extending both his hands towards the guardian.

"Bendito sea," Castiel murmured in return, clasping the worn hands between his palms. Dean stayed silent behind him, nearly hidden by his gray feathers, plastic jugs scavenged from a recycling bin two town over clasped lightly in his hands. The Hunter was incensed, and though his head remained bowed, his soul radiated irreverence. It was best, though, that he played the apostle, lest they draw suspicion.

The priest was eager to help, leading them back into the sacristy where the great iron basin, sanctified by Michael himself, brimmed with clean water. The maplewood rosary rested on the lip like an afterthought.

While Dean filled the gallon jugs, the priest ushered him back out to the sanctuary, hoping for a blessing over the altar. He was not fit to offer benediction, doubting Michael, running and hiding like a criminal, Grace weak and inextricably severed by a human. Instead, he bowed his head and said a quick prayer in enochian, as if he words would ring louder in the ears of their Father than those of a small country parish.

When he looked back up, the tears were running down the priest's face, a beatific curve gracing his lips. It was shocking, sometimes, the wonder he found in the face of the people. The angels were merely humble servants, tools wielded by their Father's hand, undeserving of worship. And the priest was filled with misdirected veneration and awe.

He jerked away at the sharp tug on one of his primary feathers. Dean raised an eyebrow at him, but then, most likely catching the look of horror etched across the priest's forehead, dropped his gaze to the polished wooden floorboards.

It was difficult to imagine Dean reverent and awed, for even as he stood there, head bent and humbled, there was a challenge in the set of his shoulders, a ceaseless burn in his soul.

He spoke a few words of gratitude and farewell to the priest before leading them both outside again, holy water in tow.

Dean straightened, stretching his shoulders in a languid shrug. "Alright, so we got the water. Now we gotta get a portable pump and a Gopher."

"A Gopher?"

"You guys don't call it that? Oh, I guess you don't actually use them. It's what we call the knives. Silver, gold, and iron. A-G-A-U-F-E. A Gopher. A gun would be better that's probably out of the question for a rogue angel and jailbird." And though Dean's tone was light, there was something almost wistful about the way he spoke, but the softness left his eyes as he took another step from the church gate.

"Actually dude, first we really need to get me a new pair of shoes because I am not going after demons in costume boots."

Dean directed them to an establishment that was small and dark, though neatly organized into rows of clothing and shoes. The air smelled of sweat, leather, mothballs, and frying oil, hopefully from a different store. Castiel would not trust food cooked in this environment.

"We lived two blocks down for about three months when Sam was eleven," Dean explained. "Kid was still a shrimp back then, but all of my clothes were either ripped up or bloody, so he had to get his hand-me-downs from someone else, you know?" The hunter squatted down in front of one shelf and pulled a pair of work boots from a box, turning each shoe over before sliding them onto his feet.

"Our clothing is provided by the HAS." Castiel looked over the racks of disowned clothing and wondered not for the first time why humans chose to put so much value in objects of so little import. The counter at the front of the store was empty, the room lit only be the weak morning light coming in from the windows.

"Right, of course it did," Dean grunted, jumping on the balls of his feet a few times before replacing the shoes on the shelf. He didn't seem particularly happy, though it didn't seem to be about footwear.

"We never knew who had our clothes before we did. Perhaps it would have been nice to know the histories," he added and Dean looked up at him with some surprise, as if he'd revealed something strangely shocking yet delightful.

"Figures the government would be as cheap as my dad," Dean huffed in laughter, before returning to his search with a small smile on his face. He seemed warmer, for some reason. Castiel hadn't judged Dean to be one who'd enjoy speaking of articles of clothing.

"Yes, it is far more cost effective, especially since most angelic children take far better care of their clothing than human children."

Dean pulled a pair of likely sneakers off the wall and sat down to slide them over his socked feet. "Most, huh?"

"I was... accident prone," Castiel admitted. He had never been reprimanded for destroying his shirts and pants, but he had still felt guilty for requiring more supplies than any of his peers.

There were many shoes that would fit Dean's feet, but he passed most of them with barely more than a glance. Some were obviously inappropriate, sandals or dress shoes, but there was a perfectly serviceable pair of steel-toed boots, nearly new, that were wholly ignored.

"Wouldn't have taken Mr. Protocol to be a troublemaker," Dean chuckled, shuffling a circle around him. Castiel had to lift his wings to allow the Hunter to skid past him in the narrow aisle.

"I did not cause trouble, Dean." The hunter should not be so presumptuous. Even though it was partially true, that the trainers had to make extra time for him, helping him struggle through the most basic exercises.

"Whoa hey, didn't mean anything by it. I mean, I'd be a complete hypocrite if I did. I swear, I went through more clothes than Bruce Banner on a bad day. And it wasn't always on hunts, either. I was always doing some stupid shit."

Castiel nodded in understanding. Dean had always been somewhat of a daredevil, telling him quietly while huddled up in the winter about swimming with sharks and diving off mountains. And time after time he would come back with scrapes and bruises and tears in his eyes. When they were younger, Castiel had just ensconced Dean in one of his wings and told him stories of the great angels from history. Azrael who led the charge against the first circle and returned with wings of soot, Israfil of the rock who blew his trumpet at Samael's resurrection, Jophiel and the seven choirs of heaven. He did not know what he could say anymore.

But then Dean laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling into little channels of mirth. "There was this one time when I was hunting a ghost with my dad and I had a cold. So I'm trying to light these bones on fire and I sneeze and drop the match right onto my shoe. And Sam's yelling, 'Stop, drop, and roll, stop, drop and roll' except it's my shoe, so there's no way in hell that's going to work. And dad has lighter fluid in one hand and a shovel in the other hand, so he smacks my foot with the shovel. And now my foot hurts like hell and I'm hopping around on one leg until I trip over this headstone and end up shoving my foot into a bowl of sand that someone had stuck incense into. I look up at the headstone I tripped over and that's when we realize there's two guys with the same name in the family and we've been digging the wrong grave."

If Dean wasn't still chuckling quietly by the end of his story, Castiel would never have guessed this for a happy memory. Children should not be hunting. Even angels weren't permitted on hunts until they were eighteen, and even then only in a supportive role, always with another angel.

His consternation must have shown, because the Dean was suddenly at the end of his wing, nudging its tip with an elbow. "Hey dude, lighten up."

"I don't understand why you're laughing," he told the hunter.

"It was a good hunt," Dean shrugged. "No one got hurt, except my foot, and only because dad panicked a little with the shovel. And even that was better a few days later."

It still did not seem particularly enjoyable, and Dean must have picked up on it, because his face was twisting into a smirk to hide his worry.

"And I guess, I don't know. Sam was laughing at me and Dad was smiling and..." Dean trailed off, embarrassed.

"And?"

"He told me 'good job, son,'" Dean mumbled, turning back to the shoes.

"There is nothing to be ashamed of. Gratification at praise from a respected authority figure is completely natural."

"My foot in your face is natural," Dean shot back, before walking away towards the clothing racks.

"What are you doing?" Castiel asked, grabbing one of the hangers off the rack Dean was perusing. It was a pair bright purple corduroy pants with gold thread edging the pockets and dark red buttons.

"Looking for pants. Not walking around in sweats. I might be a fugitive but I'm not going to be a sloppy fugitive." Dean pulled out a pair of jeans from the rack and looked up, making a face when he caught sight of Castiel. "Oh, dude, no. Those belong in the fireplace. Or Gabriel's costume closet. Congrats on moving into the world of civvies, but maybe start with something a little safer."

"Of course not," Castiel grumbled, shoving the pants back onto the rack. "An angel out of uniform would arouse suspicion."

"Yea," Dean agreed lightly and pulled out another pair of likely pants. "Wonder why Gabriel's got an entire closet of weird shit. Never seen you guys in anything but your blues."

"Gabriel is," Castiel looked for a word that could properly describe everything about Gabriel but couldn't come up with anything better than, "eccentric."

Dean launches into another story. This time it's about an old homeless man that claimed he could scent demons, like a bloodhound. They followed the man for the better part of a week before deciding that he was, in fact, insane and ended up dropping him off at a homeless shelter for the mentally impaired.

It was fascinating, these little glimpses into the road that led Dean from the child he'd once befriended to the man he found in his place. The disconnect was less jarring, and he started seeing pieces of that younger innocence still existent, buried beneath the years.

"Dude, could you turn around for a sec?" Dean called out, thumbs tucked into the waistband of his pants.

Castiel glanced over his shoulder, looking for what could have caught the hunter's attention, but found nothing. "Why?"

"What, you guys just strip naked in front of all your angel buddies?"

"Yes," Castiel answered truthfully, though he did not understand the relevance of this line of questioning. Dean looked a little stunned before a smile quirked the corner of his mouth.

"Kinky," the hunter snorted, though embarrassment coursed through him.

"Our bodies are nothing to be ashamed of," Castiel reprimanded the hunter, but turned to face the plate-glass windows, now shuttered in aluminum, nonetheless. "We are all created in God's own image."

This time the hunter's snort was infused with derision. "Not what the holy book says."

"There were societal necessities for many of the guidelines within the Bible. Jobs were often delineated by gender, thereby making certain types of clothing more suitable for one sex rather than the other. Neither God nor angels have placed restrictions on what humans choose to wear."

"Well you sure as hell didn't tell people they were allowed to wear whatever the fuck they wanted either. Ever hear of the Amish?"

"Dean," Castiel sighed. "Would you truly want angels dictating attire?"

There was a pause in the shuffling noise from behind him before the hunter admitted, "Guess not. Especially if it's angels like Gabriel."

"Okay, much better," Dean breathed out with some relief and Castiel took it to mean he was permitted to turn back around, only to see the hunter stalk past him with an armful of sweatpants and cowboy boots.

"Oh hey, flashlights," Dean said excitedly as they passed towards the front of the shop. The hunter grabbed two large hand-crank models off the shelf before moving on to the counter. The wall behind the register had an assortment of items, fairly standard and available in most stores. Temporary anti-possession tattoos were strung up in neat stacks. Castiel recognized a Syrian symbol of protection carved onto a piece of bone made into a keychain and a few warded necklaces. Dean grabbed a small switchblade, black block "GOPHER" inscribed on the handle, and tested its weight before replacing it. The next piece, a dagger with a five inch blade, passed inspection and ended up strapped into the belt Dean had found earlier.

Dean placed his pile on the counter and reached for his back pocket, hand stopping when he encountered the worn denim.

"Crap. Dude, you got to spot me here. I'll pay you back when I get my crap back from Central."

"There is no need."

"Thanks, but I swear I'm good for it," Dean insisted.

"No, Dean. There is no need to pay for any of these items. They are being requisitioned for the common good," Castiel explained.

Dean's face froze in a scowl. "Hell, no. I'm not requisitioning anything. You angels seriously just steal stuff and say its fine because you're angels?"

"Of course, not," Castiel answered shiftily, although the words were technically correct. "There are certain procedures we must follow, protocols."

"Right," Dean snarled, crossing his arms in front of his chest, green eyes blazing.

"And many store owners are perfectly willing to make a donation towards the HAS."

"These guys have to make a living, you know? Feed their kids, pay their bills, buy gas," Dean declared loudly, glaring at Castiel, "Not everyone has the government handing them free stuff at every turn. Especially small businesses. Ugh, I wish Sam was here. He'd probably go all econ on your ass. But that is just screwed up and you know it." He looked down, eyeing the hunter's 'new' sneakers, before glancing back up again to see Dean's face, still angry. Economics had never been taught to angels. They were told to rise above material desires. Money and objects were nothing next to their mission and the love of their Father. The humans' obsession with ownership and possession had seemed frivolous and petty. But he had never thought of it on an individual scale, how each man and woman had needs that angels did not experience. They grew hungry, cold, ill, and without something to barter, they would be left to suffer unless someone took pity upon them.

Castiel reached into his trench coat and pulled out his wallet. There were very few things contained within its leather pockets. There was his official identification card with his image and his name in enochian. He rarely had need to use it, his wings being a rather obvious symbol of status. There was a single red geranium, pressed and laminated, given to him by Rachel when he graduated from training. And in the largest pocket at the back, a few bills, leftover from whatever function Balthazar had last dragged him to. It had involved alcohol and a lot of human women and was generally loud and confusing.

"Is this enough?" He held out the handful of money to Dean.

"Dude, these are euros," Dean pointed out, taking the leaves of paper. "And its not enough anyways. This'll only cover about half."

Castiel did not have anything else of monetary value on him. The wallet and all of his insignia, some of which was made of silver and gold would immediately identify him should the owners attempt to convert it to cash, and he was loathe to part with his coat. He glanced down again, catching a glimpse of Dean's foot tapping against the linoleum floor tiles, soft thudding noise almost comforting.

Of course, this establishment sold used footwear as well. A moment later, his black loafers were sitting on the counter next to the euros.

"They are leather and only a few months old. They should be adequate recompense for the shoes you have taken."

Dean looked between his bare feet and his face, wide-eyed and a little confused before his face burst into a grin. Castiel felt the tension in his chest ease, though he hadn't noticed it until it was gone.

"Yea, okay. I guess I'll leave the jailbird sweatpants here as well. They'll need a wash, but everything here probably does," Dean said, before gathering the remaining items in his arms. "But I've got other plans for these boots."


	21. Minus Some Boots and Dignity

_Author's Notes:__This is the second of two chapters of material that I'd originally cut from between chapters 19 and 20, __but later decided to put back because I'm writing new chapters like this has happened_. There's also quite a bit of back story and random details about the world that are only important if you have a keen eye for plot holes.

The first boot landed with a satisfying squelch in the Mekong, just shy of the roots of a massive cypress tree. The gray strands of lichen hanging from the branches swayed lazily from the impact.

"I do not understand the point of this exercise," came the flat, gruff voice that Dean had since categorized as the angel's 'humans baffle me with their continued tomfoolery' tone.

"They're ugly-ass boots. And when you have ugly-ass boots, you don't resell them to some poor shmuck with blinders for eyes. You make sure they never see the light of day again. Basic human decency. And since I'm pretty sure these things are at least 50% plastic, we can't just light them on fire. So, ugly-ass boots, meet convenient swamp. Here." Dean shoved the remaining shoe at the angel, using his other hand to grab for the flashlight handles. The angel stared at the boot like he'd never seen footwear before, but did eventually trade the flashlights in for the shoe.

"Just throw it as hard as you can. I know it's your first time and all, so it's okay if it doesn't go that far. There's a certain finesse to it, the wind-up, the release." Dean stopped when he noticed the epic bitch-face the angel was giving him. He would have thought it a patent copy of Sammy's if the two of them had actually interacted for more than an hour. And it was utterly hilarious paired with the ginger way the guy was holding the boot with both hands, like he was carrying a tray of crystalware. Even his wings screamed 'unimpressed,' feathers slightly fluffed, like they were pouting. Cas was practically prim as he took the boot heel firmly in one hand. Not the technique that Dean would go for, but hey, first timers had to learn somehow. His arm drew back and then in one flourishing sweep of his wings and body, the boot went sailing across the water, knocking an unsuspecting egret off its perch at the top of one lanky tree.

Dean couldn't even hear the plop when it finally hit water.

Dead silence filled the air, broken only by the undignified squawking of some gull. And when he turned to his side, the angel looked damned smug.

"Hell's whore," Dean choked out before he was laughing so hard his sides hurt. "Okay, I am never betting against you. Damn, Cas. If this whole fugitive from the law thing doesn't work out, we need to get you a gig in pro-ball."

"That would be unfair. Angels are naturally stronger than humans," Cas said sternly, though Dean could see the edge of a blush creeping over his cheeks.

"Man, if you guys didn't have to spend all day chasing around demons, it would be a song to see you guys play some ball. Or like, sword-fighting. Or synchronized aerial ballet." The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he was saying. "Don't tell Sam I suggested that. Synchronized aerial bull-fighting. Football. Gymnast- fuck no. Not gymnastics."

"Of course, Dean," Cas said seriously. "You do not admire the skill and physical prowess exhibited by dancers and gymnasts." But, there was a tick in the angel's cheek and his wings were pulled in low and tight around his shoulders and Dean could just tell that the guy was laughing at him.

"Dick," Dean muttered and stomped away, entirely without direction because they were in the middle of a swamp and Cas was his ticket out of there.

He almost didn't hear the returned, "Butt."

And who knew angels were so childish? "Really, Cas? That the best you got?" Dean taunted, lightly and damn if the thoughtful look on the angel didn't seem completely out of place and completely expected at the same time.

"Cara de culo," the angel finally settled on.

"And what's that mean?"

"I believe the english translation would be 'ass face.'"

"Damnit Cas," Dean cackled, slinging an arm over the angel's shoulder. "You really suck at this."

"Comparing your face to a posterior is considered very insulting," the angel muttered.

"Right, ass face," Dean joked.

"I believe we've achieved the goal of this detour?" Cas said flatly, pissy and scowling.

"Yea, yea. Hold on a sec." Dean grabbed the sharpie he swiped from the cup by the register in the thrift shop and started drawing on the faces of the two flashlights. When he was done with the first one, he handed it over to the angel who inspected the design with his head cocked to one side.

"This is a very accurate demon trap," he commented gravely.

"Yea well, it better be if we're going to be going after demons."

"You came up with this on your own?" Cas asked with enough surprise in his voice that Dean would be insulted if the angel didn't sound equally impressed.

"Yea. They were a good idea when Dad was hunting demons without angelic back-up. Couldn't just call in a guardian to take care of the black-eyed bastards, so a portable trap came in handy. Just gotta shine it on the closest surface. You can even use a tree trunk or the side of a mountain if you're close enough."

Dean finished with the second flashlight and turned it towards a large rock jutting out of the ground a few feet away. The backlit trap traced a perfect pentagram, complete with demon wards, on the flat surface.

"We'll split up. Cover more ground that way. Don't know if my stomach can handle an entire day flying angel express anyways."

"We are not splitting up," came the expected retort.

"Look, drop me off in New Orleans. There was a lot of demon activity there back in the days after the flood. Might be some residual. An angel with wings like yours shows up, won't be long before someone recognizes you. Me? I haven't shaved in a week and I just look like any other guy. I can poke around, see if anything might be up."

The angel seemed to try to be trying to suck his wings back into his body, like if he tried hard enough he could pass as human, and his face was utterly miserable. "But, what if-"

"You can feel that right? Through the blood bond? Adrenaline spikes or something?" Dean argued quickly. He couldn't let the arguments get traction. "I doubt I'd run into any angels, and if some demons gets lured out by the dumbass sniffing around by himself, all the better. Anything else, I can handle myself."

Castiel's eyes filled out round and hard, and in them Dean could see the white house in Thailand, surrounded by sunflowers, the prettiest prison he's ever had the displeasure of staying in.

"I got this," Dean said firmly and the image melted away when the angel glanced down, just for a moment. When he looked back up, his eyes only held the blue of his irises.

"I will return once every twenty minutes to ensure your safety."

"Dude, I'm not a child. Not going to walk into a pool and drown. Two hours."

"One hour," Castiel countered and Dean's haggled enough for food and clothes and bullets to know that was the best he was going to get.

"Fine."

He still feels a little like he's won something important, even if it was just an argument with a stubborn mule of an angel. The satisfaction lasted right until he stumbled across the kitsunes. Asking around the homeless population, he found out that a few hookers had gone missing over the past week. No one who would be missed and not enough to be noticed by anyone with authority.

Castiel checked in with him just as he finished questioning a guy with more gaps than teeth who kept calling him "Mickey." Neither of them had much to report, so the angel had flapped away with shifty eyes and so much hesitancy that Dean felt insulted.

He'd been hunting since he was eleven, a good ten years before the angel, and while power counted for something, experience did for much more. His partner was his gut and he was going to trust it to keep him alive. Or at least that's what he thought until he stumbled across the nest. And since when did kitsunes have family units? There's mommy monster, daddy monster, and two little adorable baby monsters, all of them salivating to tear out his pituitary gland. Well, one adorable baby monster. The other one was already slumped in the corner with Dean's knife stuck through its heart.

And though it's been years since they've hunted together, his first thought is when the fuck Sam is going to get here because as awesome as he is, he's not taking out four kitsunes while pinned to a table. But when the table leg went through baby number two's chest, a pair of gunmetal wings rise over it's head. The angel was pissed, but that worked for him. Nerdy little Bruce Banner had hulked out, taking out the other two fox bastards at a speed that Bobby would have been proud of back in his prime. The dad toppled over, slitted eyes staring sightlessly up at Dean from right beside him before the entire table started to topple over on its three remaining legs.

Dean hit the ground with a jarring clatter that knocked the air out of his lungs, but the new angle gave him enough leverage to pry his hands loose from the impromptu shackles. By the time all of his limbs were free, Castiel was dropping the table leg in the lavender garbage can. Because the brain-eating monsters have a matching set of purple kitchen utensils to hack up their victims. Peachy.

"Hey, Cas," Dean grinned, surprised a little that his voice was so steady since his knees were still getting with that particular program.

"Dean," Cas said, not at all friendly.

"So, uh, how's the search going? Cuz it's not that great on my end. Thought I had a pretty solid lead, but turns out, hey! Kitsunes!" he rambled. His wrists were still sore, probably going to have some nasty blisters, and no way in hell he was asking Cas to fix that at the moment. Not when the angel was still staring at Dean like he'd been caught pissing on sanctified ground.

"Dean, this was not the arrangement. You should not be tracking down other hunts."

"I wasn't! I swear! I seriously thought it was going to be a demon down this rabbit hole!" Dean protested. And yea, maybe there were some claw marks that probably weren't from a demon, but Castiel didn't need to know that. Not like it was a crime to take out a few monsters that happened to be on his way.

Except apparently lying to a guy that could literally see into his soul wasn't the easiest thing.

"Dean," Cas said again, like a warning. He was going to develop some sort of complex with his name. "You should not place yourself in unnecessarily dangerous situations. If you are hurt more than my abilities can heal, you will have to go to a hospital, and they will report your whereabouts, and we will both be caught and imprisoned. And who knows how many untold consequences after that?"

And that stung. "Well then I guess I'll just have to go die in a ditch where they'll never find my body," he snapped, and it broke through some wire in the angel because his face morphed into wide-eyed horror.

"I did not mean that. I just," the angel took a deep breath. "You do not care enough about your own safety, Dean." His wings curl inward, the pinions meeting each other near the angel's knees, feathers strangely soft under the yellowing light. It made the angel look smaller, partially engulfed in a gray cocoon.

"I can take care of myself," Dean said again, though it sounded more like reassurance than rebuke, even to his own ears. "And I'm fine, aren't I?" He forced a cocky grin. "Ten fingers, ten toes. Adorable face." That got the angel to give him a customary glare and Dean smiled for real this time. "Only thing that's wrong with me is an empty stomach."

"Of course," the angel agreed after a moment, biting his lip. "I should have remembered. What would you like to consume?"

"Man, you just strip the joy from a good meal, don't you? We seriously gotta find you something you like and maybe you'll stop talking about it like I'm going to feed Altoids to seagulls."

The angel's entire expression just shut down, going from kind of apologetic to completely blank. Even his wings went to ceremonial positioning, held at strict thirty degree angles to give the impression of height without aggression. And it was basically the opposite of what Dean was trying to accomplish.

"You got a thing for seagulls?" he tried.

"No, it's..." the angel stuttered.

"Well, spit it out," Dean waved his hand.

"You used to share your food with me, trying to find something I would enjoy."

"Yea?" Dean smiled. He was awesome even as a little kid. "Anything hit the mark?"

"No," the angel sighed and shook out his feathers. The things looked like they should make swishing or crinkling noises, but they were completely silent as they cut through the air. And sometimes, if Dean looked close enough, he could catch sight of a blue underside to some of them. "Dean?" the angel said and the hunter realized he hadn't said anything in awhile.

"Oh well, what um," he fished, trying to catch the strands of the broken conversation. "What kind of stuff did you try?"

"Your diet seemed to consist primarily of confections and fruit," the angel said with faint disapproval, frown line appearing between his brows.

"That's 'cause I only gave you the good stuff. I'd be kind of a shitty friend if I tried to feed your peas or cauliflower."

Cas' head shot up. "You remember?"

"No," Dean scoffed, rolling his eyes. "But, if you came with me now to get food, I'd probably start you off on pie and milkshakes, not salads and veggie burgers."

The angel smiled, just a short quirk of the corner of his mouth and a slight crinkle of his nose, but Dean was getting fast enough to catch these things. It was almost a competition for him now, try to read the angel better than the angel could read him, even out the field a little.

"I do not particularly enjoy pie or milkshakes," Castiel admitted.

"This," Dean said as he gestured between the two of them, "isn't going to work out if you don't like pie."

"Perhaps," the angel hummed, "Or I could give any pie that I receive to you."

And that sounded like the best idea he'd heard in awhile. "You know what kind of pie you should try?" he asked with a grin.

"No," the angel answered promptly.

"Rhetorical question, Cas."

From his expression, the angel didn't seem to think that mattered.

"Anyways. There's this diner in Florida, run by this lady named Liz. Best peach pie on the entire east coast, if not the country." Dean was salivating just from thinking of it, even though it'd been years since he'd been within a hundred miles of the state.

"Would you like to go there?"

"Sorry Cas, but I'm not walking around barefoot you're kind of out of shoes to trade." Dean glanced pointedly down at the angel's feet, socks caked in a layer of mud.

"Ah, of course," the angel nodded and Dean was almost disappointed. But then his guardian reached into one of the big pockets on his coat and drew out something beautiful, green, and papery.

"Cas," Dean hissed. "Where the hell did you get that?" He took the money and shoved it back into the angel's coat. They were standing in an empty alleyway, mostly blocked from the street by a mountain of black plastic trash bags, but it was the shadier part of the city and seeing the money made Dean a bit nervous.

"There was a man..."

"You robbed someone?" Even saying it sounded ridiculous.

"No! Of course not. I paused on a street corner to check some symbols that had been painted on a wall."

"What happened to not being seen?" Dean snapped. The angel was going on and on about Dean being in danger but didn't seem to care about someone recognizing his big flappy wings.

"It was past midnight. The area was deserted," the angel huffed.

"Then how'd you get the money?"

"There was a man..."

"Yea, you said that part already," Dean growled, prodding the angel in the wing. "Where's the rest of that sentence?"

"He gave me two hundred dollars."

And that was an evasion if Dean had ever heard one. "Just like that? Random guy comes up to you in the middle of the night and hands you two hundred bucks? 'Cause I know some really awesome people, and even they wouldn't just hand me that kind of cash."

"I believe," the angel swallowed, eyes a little wide and panicked, "that he mistook me for a... a companion."

"A comp- oh this is too good, Cas. The guy thought you were a hooker?" Dean snorted, muffling his laughter in his hand.

"I do not know how," the angel muttered, shifting uneasily, toes scrunching inside his mud-caked socks. "My wings may not be as... as colorful as some of my brethren but they are the standard size."

"Wow, so this is not a conversation I thought I'd ever be having," Dean snickered, placing a hand on the angel's shoulder to steady himself. "Different people like different things, and some like a little, you know," he waved vaguely at the expanse of feathers behind the guy's back. "So there are people who cater to those tastes."

A little too vague. The angel frowned at looked over his shoulder and up the fire escape that clung to the wall.

"No, I mean. Wings. Fake wings." Dean cleared his throat and waited for Cas to catch on. The instant he did, his lips formed a perfect 'oh' and his eyes widened to match. A blush rose faster than the Red Sea before the slaves of Egypt. If Cas wasn't a virgin, Dean would eat his shoes.

"I see," the angel said, struggling to sound distant and unconcerned. "It is a fetish."

"Don't call it that," Dean snipped, making a face. It wasn't really a fetish. Fetishes were strange and kinky, but liking wings wasn't like that. People didn't go out looking for birds to fuck. It was really just angels who looked practically human. So it was pretty normal compared to all the terrifying things on the internet.

"Well since you stole this john's hooker-cash, I guess we need to amend society's wrongs and spend it on something wholesome and delicious. Like pie," Dean grinned, tearing them off the tracks that were going nowhere good fast.

They dropped out of the sky on the roof of an office building a block away from the restaurant and Dean went and got the food himself. He hoped the angel wouldn't get lured into a life of hooking and drugs before he got back. Castiel had given him an extra-squinty glare at the sentiment, the ingrate.

Dean ended up buying nearly everything on the menu, even the rabbit fare.

The food ends up covering most of their corner of a rooftop in Jersey, between the vents and the row of solar panels bolted to the edge that provide a sort of screen between them and the street below. There's burgers made of beef, buffalo, turkey, and black beans. Chicken made into strips, soup, deep fried, grilled, and baked. Sweet potato fries, wedge fries, onion rings, cole slaw, mac and cheese, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob for the sides. Cobb salad, because that was what Sam always got, so at least one person liked that stuff. And then there's Dean's pride and joy. Five different kinds of pie. The last time Castiel had pie was almost twenty years ago. Maybe he'd finally come to his senses.

The angel looked overwhelmed, sitting stiffly, wings held carefully over his head to keep the feathers from trailing through their dinner as he tried to stare at everything at the same time. If food made him look so uncomfortable, Dean could just imagine his face when someone tried to pay him for sex. How anyone could mistake Cas for a rentboy was beyond him. Sure, the guy was attractive, but he also exuded this aura of awkwardness that would have labelled him a nerd the moment he walked into a high school cafeteria.

"Just pick something. If you don't like it, move on," Dean suggested, picking up one of the burger he'd gotten himself. The smell of fried pork and grilled beef filled him with a sense of home, of family. He may or may not have moaned as he took his first bite.

"What is that?"

Dean opened his eyes to see the angel leaning forward over his knees, peering at the golden bun in his hands. Couldn't really blame the guy.

"'Acon sheebugger-" he chewed out around his mouthful of greasy goodness. He picked a silver package from the piles of food and tossed it to the angel. "Try it."

The first time Dean ever saw the angel completely relaxed was when the angel took his first bite of bacon cheeseburger.


	22. Before You Two Get Yourselves Killed

Even though Castiel could sense Dean through the bond, it still surprised him when he turned around and found someone just within arms reach. Or when he was startled out of a moment's contemplation by a voice that was growing more familiar by the day.

"You look constipated when you think too hard," Dean snorted, slapping a hand on his shoulder.

He'd grown accustomed to travelling alone. Humans were entrenched in physicality, attaching themselves to places and things. They needed to eat, sleep, defecate, a million little pauses that made them unsuitable for a life on wing. But Dean only slept four hours a night, curling himself into a cave or onto an abandoned couch. He ate like Castiel would rip the food from his hands at any moment. Bags started forming under his eyes, and Castiel could tell the effect it was having on his body, and yet the Hunter never complained. His soul was a constant golden-warm presence, like an equatorial sun that never set. He refrained from saying such things out loud, however, as comments about his soul tended to make the Hunter uncomfortable.

Not to say that there weren't certain drawbacks to having the Hunter constantly at his side. They spent half an hour arguing whether the decorations on the little church in Spain were a sign of gross opulence or commendable devotion. And he still didn't have any shoes.

But then in Vietnam, Dean handed him a gaudy cowboy boot and challenged him to throw it as far as he could into the swampy Mekong. The act itself was utterly unfulfilling, but the Hunter's choked laughter brought a smile to his face.

Dean insisted they stop for pie in Florida and Castiel discovered that there was food that he enjoyed after all.

The Hunter frightened a teenage girl in Aruba and tried to blame it on Castiel's coat.

Castiel found himself bickering with the Hunter about the most inane things. Before Dean, the person he talked to the most was undoubtedly Balthazar, but comparing the two would be like learning music through chemistry. His interactions with his oldest friend were, more often than not, sifted through texts and emails. They lacked the immediacy of standing next to Dean, watching the shift of his face warring with the shift of his soul. This was so much more, like the Hunter had amassed his own gravity, pulling Castiel into a world that was reflected in bottle green eyes.

Even if the entirety of that world was irritating and irrational.

They were standing in the shade of a baobab tree, a fascinating botanical specimen that was over four hundred years old with a hundred thousand liters of water held within its trunk. But Dean was focused on something else while Castiel simply wished to leave.

"This is a waste of time."

"No, flitting twenty times around the world in four days is a waste of time! There are billions of people out there who are going to find the demon and call in your angel buddies before we get a chance at bat. We're trying to find a needle in a haystack that destroys needles!"

"There are priorities! You are being short-sighted. Finding a demon is far more important," Castiel argued.

"Well I don't see any demons. I haven't seen any demons since-" Dean choked to a stop before continuing as if nothing had happened, but Castiel would remember the swirl of fear that blotted out everything else in his soul.

"But you know what I have seen? A wraith. An entire fucking nest of wraiths. And I am a Hunter whether or not there's a big red X over my name in the official records, so I am going to go gank those little shits, and I'm not leaving until I do."

"We can report this. Another Hunter will be assigned to this case," he countered reasonably. He had as little desire to leave a wraith nest unattended as the Hunter.

"And it'll take them, what? A day to get here? Two? People are dying, here, Cas!"

"And if Michael is really working with demons, a thousand times more could die!" he shouted. In that moment, he wished the bond worked both ways, that Dean could see the urgency he felt, that he wasn't being callous or uncaring, that this was what they needed to do for everyone, not just themselves.

"But not right now. Not this instant. People are getting their brains sucked out less than a mile from us! How can you just stand around and do nothing!"

"There are many things we should be doing and, you are right, standing around doing nothing is not one of them. We are leaving." He took a step forward and Dean's soul deepened to an ugly purple. Resentment and fear, just shy of hatred. Directed towards him. Every muscle in his body froze in panic. Even the feathers on his wings stood stiffly against the faint breeze, like someone had encased him in ice. He couldn't even bring himself to break it for fear of pushing the Hunter too far.

The purple of Dean's soul bled away until the usual streaked gold pulsed was all that pulsed within him. The Hunter took a visible breath and Castiel could move again, but only to drop his hands limply at his sides, the agitation of the previous moment still thrumming at his core. It was unsettling.

He should not value this one man's opinion so much. Maybe it was because he was his first and, most likely, only charge. Maybe it was because when he looked at Dean, he could remember a boy's face as he fell out of a tree and Castiel had been helpless in saving him. Maybe it was because the Hunter held a piece of his very essence cradled in his soul. Something dictated that Dean's hatred simply wasn't an option.

"We will take out the wraiths, but that is all," he conceded without looking at his charge.

"Fine. Let's go."

When Castiel looked up again, Dean was still standing on his heels, unsheathed dagger resting casually against his thigh.

"Well?" the Hunter asked expectantly and the angel realized what he was waiting for. He reached for Dean's shoulder and they moved.

The wraiths were disgusting creatures, sustaining themselves solely on human brains. Their bodies appeared normal, but their souls were twisted, like pieces had been ripped out, then slotted back in the incorrect cavity.

He took them out quickly, flitting from one monster to the next, destroying them with little bursts of Grace. This may exhaust him a day or two, but the weakness would pass.

Dean was on the opposite side of the den, little more than a cave sunk into the ground like a burrow. The Hunter fought with ferocity, strong and fast. The Hunter ducked the wild swing of an arm and pivoted on his front foot, using the momentum to lash out with his dagger. His movements were not the most graceful or the most efficient, but the tip of his silver blade unerringly found itself embedded within the wraith's heart. It was impressive.

One of the wraiths, supremely lacking in any sense of self-preservation, launched itself at Castiel. He swung out, trying to catch it in the chin, but the thing slipped down to the ground at the last second, brushing against his pant leg as it passed. Another wraith stumbled across the room, less than a meter from his chest. It burned out quickly, shrivelling under the purity of heaven, but it was enough time for that first wraith to pick itself up and make for the door. Castiel turned, ready to reach for it, but Dean was already there, silver flashing in his hand as it pierced through the creature's chest.

The final kill fell to Castiel, the wraith crumpling at his feet at a touch of his hand. When he stood again, the only sound left was the deep rasp of Dean's breathing, high and slow, like the Hunter was smiling. He opened his mouth to speak, to announce that they were leaving, but then a hiccup derailed his plans.

He could feel the Hunter tense up needlessly for the sound was entirely human. There was another soul in here, two if he really concentrated. They were huddled further in the back, obscured by darkness, but Castiel could see them clearly, now that he was looking.

The woman was hard, limbs of corded muscle, but her belly was large, straining with the burden of pregnancy. The baby in her womb was close to birth, its soul still wispy and insubstantial, but bright nonetheless.

"Dean," he said, directing the Hunter's gaze with a flick of his wing. The moment he caught sight of the woman, Dean hurried through the cavern and dropped to one knee to help her up. She was frightened, thirsty, but otherwise of acceptable health. The wraiths must have been waiting for the birth. They could be very selective of hormone levels in their prey.

"Hey, hey, it's alright," he heard Dean murmur soothingly, though he had to know the woman did not speak English. The woman replied, voice low, thick, and the Hunter looked towards him in askance.

"She thanks us for the assistance and would like to be allowed to return to her village," Castiel translated carefully. The dialect was muddy, so many connotations that were lacking from English but missing so many that weren't. Funny that things as large as thoughts and ideas could be constricted to fit within clipped lengths of sound.

Castiel transported her to a stand of trees just outside plots of dirt that masqueraded as farmland. Dean spoke as they watched her walk across the dusty earth, to the waking village in morning light.

"May we leave now?" Castiel asked, feeling ridiculous for needing the permission of his charge.

"Hold on, we gotta make sure she'll be alright. No point in saving her ass just to have superstitious villagers string her up."

Castiel's displeasure must have shown on his face because the next thing Dean did was scowl at him and ask, "Cas, why do you even do this?"

"It is my God-given duty," he stated, back a little straighter, wings held a little higher. Pride was dangerous, but this was as much pride in their Father as it was pride in himself.

"And if it weren't?" Dean's eyes searched his face, sharp and curious.

"Angels were placed upon this plane to battle the forces of Hell. There is no alternative." Even if there was no Central, no Michael, no alert system chirping at him from his pocket, he would still be an angel. This was what he was supposed to do.

"There's always an alternative," Dean scoffed. "If you want to save people, you save people. If you don't, then you don't."

A length of cloth rippled in the doorway to the closest hut and he could hear the Hunter's sharp intake of breath. This was what they were waiting for, to see if the woman would be welcomed or shunned. There were still those that hated not only monsters but those they thought had been tainted. "Sometimes I wonder, without my Father's love, if people are worth saving."

Dean gave him a curt nod and pointed to the east. A second figure had emerged into the open, rushing forward to meet the pregnant woman. They embraced frantically and Castiel could make out the glint of sunlight against wet cheeks.

"That's why we do this. Some people suck ass, but there's always a few that don't."

More people started coming out of the round, squat houses, all gathered in a loose group around the woman he and Dean had saved. The entire mass moved forward slowly, though she had to be exhausted, needing rest. One of them, a little girl, clung to the woman's fingers with both of her hands. He'd never held anyone's hand before, even as a fledgling. They were led with words, not touch. He never understood the human's constant need for contact, reassurance and pain coming from the same nerve endings embedded under their skin. Maybe that was why he couldn't wear the same soft smile that had appeared on Dean's face. He couldn't help but feel disappointed in himself for thinking that the rosy glow around Dean's soul was far more satisfying than a child's love for its mother.

The orange hues of dawn had all but faded from the sky by the time Dean turned to him, hands still in the pockets of his thrift store jeans.

"Alright, let's blow this joint. Where we floating off to now, Mary Poppins?"

He had originally planned to take them back to Europe, re-search the Scandinavian coastline, but the random sweeps hasn't been working and it was time to rethink their strategy. Dean had given him a new direction. Even demons, as crude and base as they were, had their motivations, had their goals. Most of the time, it was to steal and consume human souls, but for some reason, they had fixated on Dean.

"The demons are searching for you."

"Yea. So are the angels and the hunters and probably every hick who watches Hunters on Fox. What's your point?" Dean raised an eyebrow and leaned against the trunk of the nearest tree.

"Where would a demon look for you?" The question was innocent, but Dean's demeanor changed instantly, eyes narrowing as he pushed himself upright.

"We are leaving Sam out of this," he commanded.

"The demons will not give us that choice."

"He's at Bobby's. He'll be fine there as long as we don't draw attention. The place is practically a fortress."

"And so was Central." The blood drained out of the Hunter's face, but Castiel pressed further. "Sam is unharmed, but not because he is safe. The demons will realize that he is the best way to find you."

And then they would be lost, because if there was anything that he'd learned of the Hunter in the past few weeks was that he held Sam Winchester far above the heads of anyone else on heaven or earth. Even when they were children, Dean's soul shone the fiercest around his brother. If the demons had Sam, Castiel would be forced to imprison the Hunter. And then he would lose his only ally, perhaps the bond, and there would be no one left to stand against Michael and the yellow-eyed demons.

"We have to take him with us," Dean declared, eyes darting across the landscape but never focusing. "We should have taken him with us from the start. Fuck I was stupid."

"Dean, this is an opp-"

"No! We are not using him as bait. We are getting him the hell out of there."

"You wish to take a civilian with us."

"Yes! No, well, we won't take him with us. We'll stash him in Thailand where they can't find him, right?" The Hunter looked wild, running one hand through sweat-slicked hair as he paced through the dirt of Madagascar. The sky was clear blue, now, as the sun edged into the sky.

"We should leave." If the villagers decided to report the wraiths anyways, they could not afford to be here when the Hunters arrived to investigate.

"We're going to Austin."

"Dean-"

"I don't care what you're going to say because we are going to Austin." Dean planted himself in front of him, arms crossed, chin tilted up. "We'll get your demon, but not by using my little brother. We'll come up with something else."  
Castiel sighed. In truth, he had as little interest in involving an innocent in this game of deception as Dean had. Perhaps the Hunter was right, that there was a better solution somewhere else. There would always be demons. There may not always be a Sam Winchester.

"We'll go to Austin. Where is your brother?"

After Dean gave him an address, a ranch house just past the suburban sprawl, and they were at the doorstep in a wingbeat.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled out, rushing up the steps to pound on the door. "Sammy, get out here!"

Footsteps sounded from inside the house and a few moments later the door opened.

"Bobby!" Dean said with a smile. "Where's Sam?"

The man standing in the open doorway was older, brown hair nearly gone completely to gray. He stood on the balls of his feet, one hand staying behind the door, most likely holding some sort of weapon. This man was a Hunter, so it was all the more worrisome that he looked between them with wide eyes and consternation.

"Balls. Get inside here, boy," he grumbled, ushering Dean inside. "Angel." The door remained open, waiting for Castiel to follow. It was a narrow fit for his wings, especially with the grouchy Hunter still half-standing in the way.

Once they were situated in the kitchen, beers passed all around, Dean finally burst out with, "What's going on, Bobby? Where's Sam?"

"There was a demon attack a few days back. Just a couple black-eyes wandering outside the perimeter. None of them were stupid enough to come inside or stay for long. But then this girl shows, up, ganks them all. Tells Sam you're in trouble, and boy are you in trouble. Got yourself a class three alert and everything. So they split. She said she'd take him to you."

"Shit. When was this?"

"Just yesterday."

Dean slammed his beer against the table, sending amber liquid sloshing onto the ground. "Which way did they go?"

"Now, hold on there-"

"Are you serious, Bobby? You're going to try to stop me?"

"'Course not, but there's someone you should probably talk to first."

"Who?" Dean was already half out of his chair, hands planted firmly on the tabletop.

"So Bert and Ernie finally decided to show up." A dapper man in a well-tailored suit strode into the room, all confidence and superiority, but Castiel only saw that peripherally, because the instant the man came into his sight he knew this was no man. This was a demon. "Hello, boys."


	23. Despite the Lies of the Serpent

_Author's Notes: I wanted to post this one with the last chapter on Saturday since I had most of it written, but I didn't finish it until now! (Yay procrastinating on studying...) But yea, this chapter is RIDICULOUSLY blasphemous. To all the Abrahamic religions. You have been warned. Enjoy._

Castiel flipped the fuck out as soon as the short, English guy stepped into the kitchen, so now all Dean could see was a wall of gray-blue feathers cordoning him and Bobby into the corner farthest from the door.

"What the hell, Cas?" He reached for the gun at his hip only to realize that they'd never picked him up a new one. Crap. All he had was the dagger they'd managed to find at salvo.

"Whoa, stand down! He's here to help," Bobby protested, trying to get around the giant wings.

"He's a demon!" Castiel snarled and Dean turned to stare disbelievingly at his boss and mentor.

"Bobby?" he asked warily, trying to keep it from sounding like a threat.

"He's not a demon, you idjits!" the older man growled, finally forcing his way through to the middle of the kitchen. "You think I don't have this place warded up to here against demons? And his eyes are all wrong. Or right. Not black."

"Well, actually," the stranger shrugged, flashing yellow eyes at them with a blink. Dean couldn't suppress a violent shiver that almost made him lose grip on his knife. "I am a demon." He pulled a cellphone out of his pocket and started texting, like he didn't give a fuck that there was an angel getting ready to smite his ass.

"There are demons who are unaffected by the wards," Castiel explained, circling the kitchen table to get nearer to the door. "They managed to evade the security at Central in order to kill Dean."

"Well what the hell's he doing with an angel then?" Bobby demanded.

"Michael?" Dean asked automatically.

"No, the other one, with the stupid hair-"

He was cut off be the clap of wings, gusts of air toppling a mug off the counter to shatter against the tiled floor.

"I'm hurt. You've forgotten my name already? And I'll let you know the ladies of London are very appreciative of my sense of style."

"Gabriel?" Cas exclaimed, looking like someone had kicked his puppy and mailed its bits to him in separate packages.

"Hello boys and girls," the angel grinned, sticking a lollipop in his mouth.

"You're working with demons?" Cas growled, wings raised so high their backs brushed Bobby's ceiling.

"Hm," Gabriel hummed, "Yes. Well, just the three." He cocked his head from side to side.

"What the fuck?" Dean surged forward, only to be stopped by a wing to the chest. "Do you have something to do with Sam? I swear to god if something-"

"Oh calm down, Dean-o." The angel rolled his eyes and hopped up onto the counter. "Your brother's fine. Had one of my associates transport him somewhere a bit less innocuous than the house of an HAS employee." He raised an eyebrow at the Hunter, thoroughly unimpressed.

Dean could feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristling as he tried to keep himself from punching the smarmy bastard. "Sam wouldn't just take off like that. He knows better."

"Well," Gabriel said, pouting a little, "She might have had something of yours that Sammy-boy would find quite convincing."

"What?"

"Your necklace," the angel shrugged.

Dean's hand automatically went up to his collar only to find it empty. He realized with a curse that he'd left the amulet behind at Central with the rest of his stuff. Sam had given it to him for Christmas the first year they'd spent on the road. He never took it off, not even to shower. But that wasn't an argument he could use in lock-up, where it should still be. "How the hell did she get that?"

"Bela's somewhat of a specialist in acquisitions," the demon chimed in, looking like he was bored out of his mind. "Can we get this little show on the road, now please? I do have other things to be doing."

"Gabriel, why are you working with this demon?" Cas asked again, glowering so hard that Dean half-expected the other angel's shirt to catch on fire.

"Oh believe me, darling, I am as thrilled with this partnership as you are," the demon sneered. "Let's just say we all have a shared interest in not dying. And you two," he glanced pointedly between Dean and Castiel, "are making that a rather difficult proposition."

"Now, now Crowley. Let's not blame this all on the Sour Patch Kids" Gabriel hopped off the counter and slung an arm around the demon. Crowley, looked at the hand on his shoulder like a maggot had landed on his suit. "Not like Cassy knew what he was doing at the time."

Dean was about to ask what the hell he was talking about when two phones went off at the same time. The angels brought out their cells. He watched Cas' eyes go wide and heard Gabriel snort.

"Time to get out of here kids. Looks like someone saw you two dropping by." Then, possibly one of the grossest things Dean had ever seen happened: the angel seemed to dissolve into the air, his limbs and features stretching thin and transparent, surrounding them all in a haze of bright light before he was wrenched off his feet.

He stumbled back two steps and found himself in a large room. Two queen-size beds with the ugliest duvets he'd ever seen filled most of the space, but there was also an ancient tv and two overstuffed armchairs. The dick could have brought them anywhere and chose to stuff them all in a cheap-ass motel.

"Dean!" A voice he'd recognize anywhere wiped away all other thoughts.

"Sam?" he asked, turning around, and there was his brother leaping over one of the beds to crash into his arms. The dude was twenty two and still acted like a teenage girl.

"I was worried about you, man. Bela made it sound like the entire angel squad was out for your hide," his brother breathed out as they pulled apart.

"Me? I can handle a bunch of overgrown pigeons," he smirked, reaching out a hand to mess up Sam's ridiculous head of hair. He could see Cas' glower out of the corner of his eye and it only made him grin harder.

"What the hell is going on?" Bobby demanded and Dean could tell the old man was only standing still because he couldn't choose between running and shooting.

Dean glanced warily at the two demons and Gabriel. While the angel already knew about the bonding crap, he didn't really want to bring them all into what had been going on for the past week.

"Oh, for god's sake," Crowley groaned before striding out the door. He paused in the exit and gestured towards the other demon, an attractive blond woman. "Come on, Bela. Let's give the mortals some time to braid their hair and gush about their crushes."

Once the demons were out the door, Dean turned a pointed look at Gabriel.

"Oh, fine," the angel sighed, rolling his eyes. "I have to go pick up our final Musketeer anyways." He disappeared with a flurry of bronze wings. Flashy little shit.

Dean glanced at Castiel, but the angel's crossed arms and narrowed eyes strongly suggested his intention to stay exactly where he was. But that was kind of his right. This was his mess as much as it was Dean's. Might as well be part of the explanation.

He spent the next ten minutes going through everything that had happened at Central. Every time he caught Sam contemplating something he said, he wanted to backpedal and insist the two of them just lay low and stay the hell out of this. But then he'd remember the two entirely too human demons presumably waiting in the hallway. Sam and Bobby would be safer knowing what the hell was going on.

"Shit, boy," Bobby breathed out, running a hand underneath his cap. "So we've got ourselves a bunch of demons that look like humans and aren't affected by the wards and an angel who might be a demon that isn't affected by the wards and they all might be in cahoots with the Director?"

"Sounds about right," Dean confirmed.

"I do not believe Michael was working with the demons," Castiel countered.

"Wait, so why was this Zachariah even there? You said all the angels were called off the India or something, right?" Sam cut in.

"I have no idea," he moaned. Going through the entire thing again was giving him a headache.

"And what happened to the sheriff after she pulled the alarm? Did you just leave her there?" his brother pressed.

Dean looked over at Castiel, who answered for him. "She was already dead." That just confirmed what he already suspected. The demon had hit her hard. He couldn't help but feel a pang of guilt. Jody knew the risk she would be taking when she joined the force, but he kept thinking of the little boy who would grow up without a mother. Having the shadow of a hero could never compare to having a flesh and blood coward.

When he looked back at his brother, he was brooding, clearly uncomfortable about something.

"What, Sam?" he prompted.

"You said," the younger Winchester started but paused to swallow, "that the demons had yellow eyes."

"Yea, Sammy," he said quietly. He couldn't look him in the eyes, so instead he studied the covers he sat on. It really was the ugliest bedspread he'd ever seen.

"You're sure," Sam, stated, obviously keeping his voice steady and even.

"I saw it. Cas saw it. I'm sure," he confirmed and waited. Even the pillow-cases had the same pattern. Geez, who the hell picked this crap out?

"Oh, god. Dad was right. All that time I thought he was insane and he was right." Sam's voice had that high-pitched reedy quality it always got before he started crying.

"We don't know that, Sam," Dean said fiercely, reaching across the gap between beds to grab his brother's shoulder. "We don't know what dad saw. Even if he did see someone with yellow eyes, there's no way we could have known they existed. No one knew they existed," he said, his voice thinning out to a whisper as he slid across onto the other bed, one arm pressing his brother to his side. "You got that Sammy? You couldn't have known."

"You knew. You always believed him," Sam argued.

"I didn't know, either, Sam. I just, took Dad's word for it. And after... after he died, I stopped believing, too."

Bobby and Castiel stayed silent through the entire exchange and Dean could kiss them both for not saying anything now. The old Hunter had known their father, been his friend for years, even after John had left the Squad. He had found a sudden interest in the painting of sunflowers that hung on the wall by the television. Castiel, however, was staring straight at Dean. He didn't blink, just watched, arms still crossed and frowning. Dean tried to figure out what he was thinking, searching his face, waiting for a twitch to give something away. Had he heard of the Winchester scandal? He never brought it up, but that may have just been to avoid an awkward situation, not that the angel had exhibited an aversion to those.

The tension in the room was cut by the sudden arrival of four other people. No, not people. An angel and two demons and most likely a third.

"Sod it, Gabe!" Crowley cursed, dabbing at his chest. "We were twenty feet away. We could have just walked. You are paying the dry cleaning bill for this!"

Bela snorted. "Like you need the money."

"No, I don't, because I collect on my debts, such as this one." He gestured at the dark stain on his red tie.

"Please," the new demon scoffed. "You're wealthy because you're miserly and as old as dirt." She was a tall Indian woman dressed stylishly in a ruffled red top and black pencil skirt.

"Younger than you, darling," Crowley sniffed. He tucked the tie back into his vest and glanced around at the humans. "So, is sharing and caring hour over?"

"Don't antagonize the mortals," the third demon sighed. She crossed the few feet and extended a hand diplomatically. "Hello, my name is Kalika, but you may call me Kali."

Dean just glared at her. No way in hell was he shaking hands with a demon. Sam, however, must not have caught on yet, because he was enthusiastically reaching over Dean to grab her hand.

"Wow, Kalika, like the Hindu goddess of shakti?"

"Sam!" Dean grabbed his brother's arm, knocking it aside. "She's a fucking demon," he snarled. "They all are!"

"What?" Sam's eyes grew wide as he looked around the room. "But they can talk."

"Wow, this one must be the brains of the operation," Crowley muttered.

Sam ignored him. "And their eyes..."

One of the demons must have flashed yellow because Dean saw his brother suck in a breath and the kid shifted towards the wall, hand grabbing at something tucked into his waistband. Good to know he still had some of the fighter instinct drilled into them as they grew up.

"Dean, why are we working with demons?" he asked warily.

"I don't know. Why don't we ask Gabe?" Dean replied acidically, turning his glare across the room.

The angel in question sighed and hooked his legs over one of the arms of the recliner he'd settled into. "Because they are, as they say, as old as dirt, and know things that would blow your puny little monkey mind." He waggled his palms in the space around his ears.

"They know why the demons are all going insane and trying to kill me?" he hedged.

"Not exactly, but we make a pretty good guess," Bela replied lazily, glancing at her watch. The thing looked expensive, silver or white gold.

"Which is?" Bobby asked gruffly when none of the demons were forthcoming.

"Ugh, might as well get this ball rolling so we can all get the hell out of here sooner rather than later," Bela whined and hopped onto the chest of drawers by the television, her blond hair blending into the sunflowers behind her head. "Once upon a time..."

"Seriously?" Dean scowled before Cas shut him up with a glare.

"Once upon a time," Bela said again with emphasis, leering at Dean. "There was an angel who got really cozy with a human, so cozy, in fact, that the angel decided to share some shiny angel bits with that human."

Dean shifted uncomfortably, pointedly looking away from Cas even though he'd bet a hundred bucks the angel was still staring at him.

"Which one are you even talking about?" Crowley interjected, face full of derision.

"All of them," Bela shrugged.

"How many have there been?" Castiel asked, speaking for the first time directly to the demons.

"That we've been around for? Just two. But there have been, oh," Bela pressed her lips together, thinking, "At least ninety. Not all of them were that famous."

Dean couldn't see Sam or Bobby but he was pretty sure they were also staring at the demon in confusion and doubt.

"Okay, okay, you caught me. We're not actually as old as dirt," Bela sighed dramatically.

"Where are you getting this information from?" Castiel demanded, and Dean was glad at least one of them was following.

"Well, John and Muhammad were a pretty big deals back in the day, still are to some people," she shrugged, tapping her red nails against the wooden surface of the dresser.

"Wait, John and Muhammad? Like the Prophet Muhammad?" Sam blurted out.

"Oh, honey," she mocked. "That boy was a tactical genius, a smart dresser, and the most charming man ever born in Mecca, but he was not a prophet. Most likely, none of them were."

"None of them?" Sam repeated numbly. Dean could see his brother's inner geek seeping out of every pore. "You mean Abraham, Moses, Isaac..." He trailed off. "Jesus?" he added wildly.

"Can't say for certain. We weren't around back then," she said, nonchalant even though Sam was probably crumbling inside. Dean was never that religious. Sure there were angels, God's gift to humanity, but they weren't exactly perfect, so maybe God wasn't either His brother, however, was making the strangled noise that dying cats would envy.

When he turned around to mock him, though, Sam had a look of awe and reverence on his face. And it was directed at Dean.

"Oh hell no," he commanded. "That has nothing to do with me, okay? Do I look like a prophet of the freaking lord to you?"

"Au contraire," Kali sighed. "This has everything to do with you. Because when there's a piece that powerful on the board, everyone either wants to control it, or destroy it."

"What power?" Dean tried to laugh it off. "I don't have any power!"

"And that's the million dollar question, isn't it?" Crowley smirked. "Why is Excalibur still stuck in the stone?"

"Hey!" he protested. "Excalibur works just fine, thank you very much."

"Oh my god," the demon rolled his eyes. "I'm not talking about your dick, you ignorant slut. I'm talking about the fact that you should be able to part the Red Sea, turn water to wine, split the god-damned moon, but instead you're running scared from a bunch of beetles!"

"That's ridiculous!" Dean turned to Sam and Bobby. "Can you believe these guys?" chuckling a little.

"Dean," Castiel said sharply. The angel looked disturbed, though he was still staring him down. "This story corroborates with what Zachariah said. He believed that you were the one who killed the demons at the motel in Lawrence."

"Zachariah had red eyes! Fuck, he could be working with these guys!"

"Who the hell is Zachariah?" Crowley sniffed with a curl of his lip. Dean didn't bother responding.

"And he also said that Michael planned on modeling you as the new Messiah."

"Well Mikey kind of killed any chance of that when he went batshit insane!" Dean knew he was sulking, but there was no way in hell he was the new Jesus. No way he had the power to do the things the demons, the yellow-eyed demons, he reminded himself, were suggesting. "If this was even maybe true, how come none of you knew about this?" he eyed Cas and Gabriel. "How come you're all so gung-ho about believing this crap?"

Neither answered for a few minutes, and Dean felt a victorious smirk creeping onto his face, but then Castiel said softly, "Prophets are human, and therefore fallible. None can truly understand the will of God but God himself and the angel with whom he chooses to commune." He sounded like he was reciting something; his words were dead and monotonous.

"The angel with whom he chooses to commune," Sam echoed thoughtfully. "So you're saying there's just the one angel that actually talks to God?"

Even as his brother asked the question, Dean felt his stomach sink; his gut already knew where this was going.

Gabriel pulled the candy sucker from his mouth with a loud pop. "That, my fine un-feathered friend, would be Michael."

_(So how many of you saw that coming?)_


	24. At Some Motel in Egypt

_Author's Note: Sorry this is so incredibly late! Had writer's block until the new episode gave me angry-sad feels and I had to escape into AU :C For those who have read the original update, the general elements are the same, the order and writing is just different, so it's not entirely necessary to reread it. The only major differences are how the guilt is handled and this version has a little more on Cas' back story._

Meeting societal leaders was reserved for only the very best and the very worst of humans. The principles, presidents, and kings, they were restricted by time, space, patience and fear. They became abstract figures, little more than characters in a story that people were told to believe. They were placed on pedestals they did not always deserve.

Castiel did not remember the first time that he met Michael. The Director personally greeted every fledgling that was brought to Central. Castiel did not remember the second time he had met Michael either. He had been too sick, delirious and weak. It was only after he had recovered that Rachel informed him of the visit, of Michael's concern. He had always taken it as a sign of Michael's great compassion, his overwhelming love for every angel. In subsequent meetings, peppered throughout a frustrating academic career marred by a constant failure to keep up, the Director was always stretching his wings when his flight feathers came in, asking questions about his life, talking him through the healing process when he failed to kill a vampire at thirteen. He'd always been interested.

But perhaps even then he suspected that Castiel was part of something else. His smile may have belied disgust. His fascination fueled by morbid delight. It scared Castiel how quickly the doubt crept into his mind. Maybe it had always been there, trailing behind him like a cloak as he clung to the structure of life as a guardian, and now that he had let go, it dragged him about on the current of events. His wings itched, like each feather was twisted slightly out of place.

"Did you know?" Dean demanded darkly from where he was seated on the plastic tile of the vending area, half-empty bottle of coke streaked with white lines from where he'd crushed the neck clenched in one hand.

The hunter had stormed out of the motel room after Gabriel had disappeared with Kali to tend to one of his charges. Kali's face had broken its cool demeanor into a voracious grin as soon as the angel had mentioned demons.

"Know what?" he answered, paused in the doorway. He didn't know whether to stay in the half-lit hallway or crowd his wings into tiny room illuminated by the glowing blue Pepsi dispense and the wan yellow of the snack machine.

Crowley and Bela had left as well, just before Gabriel, one to whatever business dealings he had going on, the other two an art show in Milan. He had watched in fascination as the darkness that swirled through them billowed out behind him before engulfing their beings, pulling them through the aether. Subdimensional flight had always been an ability reserved to angels, but here were demons practicing the same. They were slow, very slow. A fledgling could catch them, but it should not have even been possible.

"That you were turning me into some sort of human nuke," Dean spat, plastic crunching in his fist.

Bobby had gone home. He was too old, he said, to be on the lam. He had a bad knee and a bad back and a daughter in South Dakota who was too good to have a fugitive for a father. He already knew too much and for now the only thing the angels knew was that a wanted angel and a wanted man had showed up on his doorstep while he may or may not have been home.

"No," Castiel told Dean. "I was five years old. I barely understood what I was doing in the first place, much less the consequences."

Sam was the only one left in the motel room. Sam, who was filled with so many questions, a curiosity so naive that Castiel would think the man innocent if he had not seen the rage birthed by his father's violent death. But Dean could not handle the questions, each resonating with his own doubt until filled with anger, guilt, fear, pain, sorrow, and so much that his soul was muddled with them. So the hunter had run, but not too far, to this narrow space filled with the refrigerator's hum.

"And later? When you found out about our bond?" The last word was choked, so conflicted that Castiel did not know what to make of it. He only knew that it left him feeling cold, separate, and he found himself crowding his wings through the door and leaning against the giant glowing image of a pepsi bottle, light sifting through his feathers to ensconce his dull gray plumage in an unearthly blue.

"In training, we are taught that a grace bond is the ultimate sign of devotion."

Dean snorted, but silenced when Castiel shot a glare in his direction.

"Regardless of why the bond is formed, the effects are the same. Bond mates are able to sense each other's locations, emotions, and, in desperate situations, are able to lend each other their graces."

"That's creepy," Dean commented wryly, but his eyes were fixed on some point on the ground, unfocused and dull. He picked at the plastic label on his soda bottle.

"We are additionally warned against forming a grace bond with a human. It is dangerous, the human body is unsuited to such direct exposure to an angel's grace. Perhaps that is why the exchange of blood is necessary to stabilize it. So much knowledge has been lost." It was frustrating to know this had happened before, many times, and yet they knew little of its origins and its effects.

"Right," Dean snorted. "Lost."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that someone's pulled the blinds over your eyes and you all just think there's nothing behind them."

"That's not possible."

"Who decides all this crap anyways? Your training regime?"

Castiel only hesitates a moment before answering, "Michael. But even he could not hide such information. Other angels would know the truth."

"Like who?"

Castiel paused to think, to sift through all the angels bound to terrestrial service. In truth, it was frightening how young their general population was. Michael was one of only a handful that was over a hundred years in age, but he was not the oldest. "Joshua and Metatron," he named the two oldest. "Also, Taniel and Edzekiel," he added. "They were raised by Gabriel."

"What? Weren't you raised by Gabriel?" Dean asked, eyes shooting up, and Castiel realized the misunderstanding.

"Not this Gabriel. The Director before Michael was named Gabriel as well."

Dean grunted in acknowledgement before taking a gulp of his coke and Castiel waited. He waited to see if all that anger was directed at him or at their world in general. Waited to see if all that hurt and worry and confusion would burst forth in a show of aggression or defeat. But Dean just finished off his drink and tossed the empty bottle into the garbage can before levering himself off the ground.

The hunter wandered through the halls, boots thudding dully against the worn carpeting. Occasionally they'd pass a room filled with thudding music or suspicious thumps, but for the most part the building is quiet and the halls are empty. Castiel didn't know if Dean had noticed that he moved his wings to block some of the exits and stairwells as they passed to dissuade the hunter from trying to leave, or if he had noticed and didn't care.

They stopped in a wider part of the hall next to the silent elevator. Castiel couldn't help but notice the flicker of the hunter's eye towards the down button, but Dean didn't make a move to hit it, so he didn't say anything.

"So you believe all this?" Dean asked, hands in his pockets. "This prophet stuff?"

"Yes," he answered with more certainty than he felt, but one of them had to have some faith, even if it was only in another angel. "Gabriel may act the puerile fool, but he is shrewd. Sometimes I think he has played so many tricks that he is capable of recognizing any attempted on him," he muttered and didn't realize how bitter he sounded until he caught sight of Dean's amused expression.

"So I guess that made you the straight man growing up. No wonder you're so stiff," Dean said with a smirk.

"On occasion. Gabriel was not very active in my upbringing. He was inaccurate in comparing himself to my father. He would be better likened to an extremely annoying older brother." Castiel was surprised by the detour into his own childhood, but Dean was laughing, so maybe it was simply something to divert them from the gravity of their other concerns. Gabriel had not been around much, but when he was, he was always a blur of activity, bringing home strange objects and inappropriate books that Castiel refused to touch no matter the prodding. There was teasing and pranks, but Gabriel never brought up his shortcomings, never commented on his marks. It did bring a smile to his face to match Dean's.

A door opened and closed somewhere down the hall, followed by short light footsteps. It was likely a child, but Castiel grabbed Dean's wrist and flew into an empty room on the floor below them. As soon as they landed, Dean ripped his arm away.

"Jesus, Cas! It was just some kid. Probably had to use the bathro- ow!" The hunter stumbled over something in the dark, cursing to himself as he stumbled. Castiel flicked the light on to reveal Dean half sprawled against a chair, rubbing his wrist.

Suddenly the hunter burst out laughing, though there was little mirth shown in his soul.

"What is so funny?"

"We just ran away from a little girl," the hunter gasped, righting himself to sit properly. "We just ran away from a little girl and I almost broke my wrist by tripping over a chair. And I'm what? I'm supposed to be some sort of Superman? Laser eyes and abs of steel and parting the fucking ocean?"

Castiel was stunned by the utter derision in his voice. The disbelief in the demons and Gabriel he could understand, but somehow that did not seem to be the sole source of incredulity.

"I nearly got Sam killed when he was eight because I couldn't hit a vamp from five feet away. I burned down Bobby's shed once when I messed up an banishing sigil. I couldn't graduate fucking high school. And you're telling me that I... me... I've got the power to what? Save the goddamned human race?" Dean was bent nearly in half, pulling ragged breath into his lungs, tears squeezing out of his eyes, stuttered laughter still spilling from his lips.

For all that Castiel could see the regret in the man's soul, there was nothing he could do to ease it. What good was the bond if he couldn't help his charge? What was there for Dean to regret? The burning of a shed was hardly reason for such strong emotions. Sam was safe, sitting in a room not a hundred feet away. And even without a high school degree, Dean had managed a respectable career with the HAS. For once, he wished he really could read the man's mind, dig through whatever he wasn't saying to find out what was wrong. If he knew more, he might be able to come up with something more than a general feeling of guilt.

"Why do you feel so guilty?" he asked in frustration. "You have done nothing warranting this level of remorse. If you had, your soul would carry the marks and I see no such thing."

Dean quieted, a few chuckles chasing the smile from his face. "You don't have any fucking clue what you're talking about." The words were quiet, but they made him stiffen more than when Dean was yelling at him.

"Then tell me." It should be simple. They may not have explicitly chosen to be so, but they were bondmates, tied until Dean died. If there was some horrible thing in his past, he needed to know, but it was not so simple with Dean. If he had learned anything while travelling with the hunter, it was that bald statements of fact tended to drive him away rather than clarify the situation.

"It's- no. You know what? You tell me the worst thing about you and then I'll tell you mine," Dean huffed. "Oh wait, I forgot. Mister goody two shoes always by the book angel has probably never even skipped school before."

"And yet I'm here now," he pointed out. The hunter's eyes widened before returning to their previous scowl.

"Yea well," Dean said dismissively. "You still know a shit ton more about me than I know about you. Hell, you probably know things about me that I don't even know about me if you knew me as a kid."

"That doesn't mean-" Castiel started but bronze wings flooded his vision, cutting him off.

"There you two are," Gabriel chirped. "Had to comb the whole motel to find Dean-o's soul. We gotta head back to the war room, assemble the dream team, take the gold."

Castiel swatted at the feather that had insinuated itself into his ear and went towards Dean, but the hunter had already yanked the door open and was walking towards the stairs. Gabriel shrugged and Castiel rushed after the hunter once again.

They didn't say anything more until they were outside the motel room door, Dean girding himself, not reaching for the door handle.

When Bobby had left, the old hunter had offered to take Sam as well, place him in protective custody, but both brothers had objected to that, though for different reasons. Sam wanted to stay and help. Dean wanted to hide him somewhere away from both the angels and the demons. Castiel could see the itch to fight building just under the hunter's skin, but then Gabriel had announced his departure and Sam had been distracted by the demons' disappearance and the matter was delayed. It seemed that Dean managed to avoid most discussions he did not want, but Castiel wasn't going to forget.

"When your parents fought, you used to call me over to take Sam over to my house."

"My parents never fought," Dean said defensively, still staring at the door.

"You told me that you had to stay behind and make sure your mom and dad were okay and then you would sit at the top of the stairs and wait for the yelling to stop. The only times you would come with us was when Sam wouldn't stop crying. I would carry Sam across the tree and you would follow with this giant green bag filled with toys and this ratty blue blanket that used to be yours but you gave to Sam even though he had a nicer one from one of your relatives. Your soul was always the brightest when you were protecting Sam," Castiel recalled with a small smile. It was nice to have those years back.

"I... I remember that blanket. And I remember the bag. I remember sitting at the top of the stairs when my parents fought," Dean mumbled before turning his eyes on the angel. "I just don't remember you. There aren't even empty spaces where I think something should be."

"The human mind is very resilient. It fills the gaps between memories."

Dean grunted, grudging in his acceptance, his soul settling, before knocking on the door. It opened a moment later to reveal Kali's disapproving face. Sam was still there, typing furiously on his laptop while Gabriel peered over his shoulder.

"Oooo, that's a terrible picture," Gabriel tutted.

"What're you doing?" Dean asked, walking across the room, but Sam shut the laptop before he got there.

"They um... they released a news article on you and Castiel."

"Yea? What's it say?"

"It... well... it goes into some stuff about dad."

Dean grimaced and turned away to sit heavily on the edge of a bed. "So what's this dream team going for the gold crap about?"

Castiel walked into the room and Kali closed the door behind him.

"What? Isn't it obvious?" Gabriel said with a flourish of his wings. He looked expectantly between Dean and Castiel. "We've got the Hulk stuck as Bruce Banner. Come on, Dean-o. It's time for you to get angry." The angel looked comical, arms flexed at his sides.

"Right, if that's all it took, don't you think it would have come out when I was, I don't know, stuck in jail?" Dean shot back.

"Maybe you just need the right incentive," Gabriel hummed with a look that Castiel only ever saw when something unfortunate, but not necessarily damaging was going to happen. "I'm going to drop Sammy-boy from the roof."

"No!" Dean yelled lunging at the angel, but Castiel was there before him, holding the hunter back with his wings.

"Gabriel does not truly mean to harm your brother," he reassured Dean, cringing a little as the hunter scrambled at his feathers, and shot a glare at the other angel. "We do not harm those who have not broken God's laws."

"Oh fine," Gabriel sighed with a roll of his eyes.

"I do not believe that fixing the bond should be our goal."

"Then what?"

"We need to find out why Michael has outlawed Dean and I."

"I thought we already knew that," Sam interrupted. "He wants you two to play messiah right? And since you ran away, he needs you back, so since you two aren't exactly going to waltzing back to him, this is the best way to catch you."

"That does not explain why he had us both imprisoned separately. He would have to tell us at some point, so why should he lie right now? There must be another reason," Castiel deduced. This deceit had puzzled Castiel ever since he had found himself trapped by a ring of holy fire. He hoped it was just some sort of misunderstanding, some error that they could correct and return their good names.

"And I would beg to differ," Kali interjected. "Fixing the bond is imperative."

"Why?" Dean said.

"Because you are an angel," she nodded at Castiel. "You are a hunter," she nodded at Dean. "And you are both sworn to ridding the world of demons."

Castiel glanced at Dean who was just as confused as he was. "Yea great, but that's probably not going to happen unless Michael goes all Jekyll on his Hyde."

"The HAS has an acceptable system," Kali acknowledged, "But there is a better way."

"And what's that?" Dean asked sarcastically.

"Close the devil's gate."

_More Author's Notes: __There's actually a first draft of chapter 20 that shows Dean and Cas hanging out, getting used to each other, becoming friends that got cut and montaged because its rather silly and doesn't advance the plot much. I kind of want to put it back after writing this chapter because it feels like all they do is have these really angsty conversations._


	25. Anti Demon Demons

"You're not touting that drivel again are you?" came the obnoxiously smarmy Scottish voice and Dean laughed as Castiel startled away from the demon that had appeared just by his shoulder. The angel glared at him before moving over to sit down pointedly on the bed, jostling Dean with a wing. It was so childish and different from the Castiel in the hallway that Dean couldn't help but snort. The wing stayed there though, just behind his back, not touching, but heavy and warm and comfortable.

Kali and Crowley were squabbling, devolving into a fit of insults and name-calling like a bunch of kindergarteners. Gabriel was all but laughing out loud at the two of them, chin cupped in his palms as he leaned over the table. Sam seemed strangely fascinated, probably thinking about some anthropological phenomena of intraspecies rivalry. So it was really up to him if they were going to get anywhere in the next hour.

"You two," he said in his best big-brother-just-caught-you-sneaking-a-cookie voice. "Sit down and tell us what the hell you're arguing about."

Neither of them moved, but then again Dean hadn't entirely expected them to fold like a house of cards. But when both of them opened their mouths again at the same time Dean quickly cut it, "Kali. What the hell is a devil's gate?"

She was too refined to be smug, but if she wasn't she would probably be sticking her tongue out at the other demon. "Interdimensional travel is incredibly difficult. Angels, demons, humans, we are all essentially trapped on this plane of existence. And yet, somehow, the demons are managing to pierce through the veil. I believe it was one of yours that came up with the concept of Occam's razor. It makes far more sense for their to be one spot, a gate if you will, that opens up between the two worlds, through which all demons travel, than for each demon to manage to separately break out of hell."

"That makes sense," Sam said with his thinky face. Dean had gotten a GED and half his degree from a community college, but he'd learned that the things that made the most sense weren't always the things that were true.

"You got any proof?" he challenged.

"I've seen it," she said, chin tilted up in defiance, jaw clenching when Crowley chuckled.

"And why don't you believe her?" he questioned the shorter demon.

"Darling, tell them how old you were when you saw this gate to hell," he wheedled. When she didn't answer, he did it for her. "She was three. Barely out of her diapers. And even you apes with your miniscule lifespans don't trust the word of a three year old."

"I know what I saw," Kali defended quickly.

"And what did you see?" Castiel added solemnly, wings not moving an inch.

"It was... it was a gaping maw in the earth that glowed red with hellfire. The air reeked of sulfur and ash and the heat was so strong that I could not approach within a hundred feet of its edge." Dean shivered in sympathy with the haunted look on her face, eyes unfocused and wide. Whatever it was that she saw or thought she saw, that was genuine terror.

"Oh, do tell them the rest of your little story," Crowley sighed impatiently.

"It wasn't until I'd left, looking back over my shoulder, that I saw him, the first demon rising from the gate. He was hideous and wrong in ways that you can not possibly fathom. Just looking at him made me want to flee."

"Right," Crowley declared, cutting through the dark mood of Kali's words. "And thus we conclude the nightmare of a child."

"She doesn't seem like she's lying," Sam argued quietly.

"Oh, she's not. Kali here really does believe every word coming out of her mouth. Its not sincerity that is lacking, it's concrete evidence. Surely you learned about that in your fancy school, lawyer boy?"

"Well, she's been there right? Why can't she just show us where it is?" Sam suggested, but Dean already had a feeling in his gut that it couldn't actually be that easy. Because if there really was some giant seething gate to hell lying around, why hadn't anyone found it?

"I do not recall it's exact location. And I believe it has been hidden," Kali admitted, spreading her hands, bronze skin splayed against the black fabric of her skirt.

"Of course," Crowley crowed, small toothy smile lighting up his face. Sam slumped back into his seat, drumming his fingers against the wooden table top and Dean could feel his disappointment. The kid always got a little too excited.

"But I believe the prophet can locate it again," Kali declared casually, like it was the easiest fucking thing in the world.

"And how's that?" Dean asked, not at all expecting an answer he was going to like.

"I know the general location. And since a prophet was most likely the one to create and conceal it, another prophet should be able to reveal and destroy it."

Sam's fingers stopped their incessant beat and Cas' wing jerked forward, stiff flight feathers ghosting across his back. It sounded fundamentally ridiculous and not a little insane, but Gabriel was still grinning at the rest of them and for once Crowley wasn't coming in with some smart-ass retort.

"I thought prophets were supposed to be saving lepers and slaves. Why would they go around opening gates to hell?" he asked wildly, because this was his truth, the good men and women of God.

"I don't know. But the prophets marks were all over the gate," Kali said, shaking her head. "It was before my time."

"Okay," Dean nodded. "Okay. Let's go find this gate." Because if there really was a gate, and if he really could close it, he sure as hell was going to try, shut out those bastards that killed Jo's father and Bobby's wife. Hellish cockroaches that came one after another after another until his father's life and his brother's childhood were crushed under their ceaseless tide.

He could feel the fire building up just under his skin, the itch to end this siege being laid against their world. It was so much bigger than his problems with Michael and the freaking HAS that took two generations of Winchesters and turned them into criminals. And he turned around to demand Cas take him there, but the angel opened his damned mouth and said, "We should tell the other angels."

"What? Hell, no." Dean whipped around, the betrayal sharp and bitter on his tongue.

"They deserve to know. They can help, set up some sort of sweep, control the gate even if we can't close it. They can come up with a plan," the angel argued.

"You mean Michael can. Michael's network. Michael's plan," he spat out and ignored the flash of hurt that made Cas look down, blue eyes shielded by dark lashes. "How many times do we have to do this, Cas? We can't trust Michael. Even after everything, god-"

"Yes, exactly, Dean. After everything. He has experience, leadership skills. And he is powerful, favored by our Father, with the resources of every angel behind him. And what do we have? What are we?" And Dean could see the angel shrinking in on himself, cowed by the shadow that Michael cast all the way from Central.

"We are going to be the ones to fix this. We are the ones that Michael wants. He needs our help, you got that? That's why he's doing all this. He's scared, Cas, of us." At some point Dean had stood up, towering over the still-seated angel, and yet when Castiel fixed him with that certain eye that belied so much doubt, Dean felt like he was staring down a giant. Maybe it was the wings.

Castiel's gaze faltered first, and where Dean should have felt triumph, he only felt disappointed rage. Because Castiel was looking at Gabriel, waiting for his answer, his reactions, his thoughts when Gabriel wasn't so much better than Michael.

"No," Dean snapped, grabbing the angel's chin, forcing him to face forward again. "This isn't Gabriel's decision. This is your crazy ass tied mine. The prophet gig is a two-for-one kind of deal."

When Castiel just sat there, frowning up at him, he started to panic, because he couldn't do this on his own. He still didn't know the first thing about getting his superpowers to work and he sure as hell wasn't going to trust Gabriel or a bunch of demons. And Sam's ass wasn't getting within a hundred miles of this hell gate if he had anything to say about it. And there wasn't anyone else after that, so he needed Cas to have his back, to get them through this with his creepy staring and gross amounts of oversharing and his constant need to talk about the things that scared the shit out of Dean. Because the things that scared the shit out of Dean didn't seem to phase the angel one bit.

And then Castiel's hand was on his wrist, ripping it away from his face as the angel stood up before Dean had the chance to back the hell away so when Castiel growled, "Fine," he could smell faint tangerine scent of his breath.

"Ugh," Crowley groaned and Dean whirled away to glare at him. "You two are so melodramatic. Not like you could tell the angels anyways."

"What?" Dean asked and he got the sense that he was missing something.

"They um," Sam started, but paused to clear his throat. "They're saying you two murdered the Sheriff."

"That was demons!" Dean protested in horror, the grotesque image of Jody sprawled out all wrong against the desk after triggering the sprinkler system.

"The news article said that Castiel broke you out of jail and the two of you broke every bone in her body," Sam said without looking up.

"That's not true! You know I would never do that, Sam."

"Of course I know that," Sam scowled, looking at Dean like he had to have been dropped on the head a couple times as a baby. "But as soon as you show up they're going to pin first degree murder on you and I don't know what they do to rogue angels."

"Shit," Dean cursed and saw Castiel's pale face out of the corner of his eye.

"There are no rogue angels," he rumbled.

"You two blockheads really didn't know? What did you think they were pinning on you?" Crowley grinned disbelievingly at them.

"Possession and intention to distribute," Castiel muttered, glaring at the carpet.

"Oh my god, you really are quite dull, aren't you?"

"Hey!" Dean roared, "Back the fuck off." So yea, the full scale manhunt was probably a little much for some drug charges, but it's not like the two of them were watching the nightly news and Cas' cell was only getting the alert notices, not the full reports. And frankly, the what hadn't been nearly as important as the why.

"Touchy." Crowley scrunched his face up in distaste, like Dean was some gnat that had the gall to splatter itself on his windshield. Which was fine, because this wasn't the demon that mattered.

"Where's this gate?" he demanded from Kali who had pushed herself off the cabinet she'd been leaning against to walk over to Sam, and more specifically, Sam's computer.

"Somewhere in Italy. May I?" she gestured at the laptop, which Sam quickly handed over. A few tapes of the keyboard and she'd pulled up a satellite view of the entire country. "We flew from Rome. It wasn't that far, just over two hundred kilometers. I think it was more South than North, so that limits our search to this arc here." She cut a swath across Italy, about where the ankle of the 'boot' would be.

"Alright, let's go," Dean nodded, memorizing a few of the town names to use as markers in his head.

"Wait, Dean," Sam said, grabbing his arm. "How are you even going to know if you've found it? You're not exactly powered up yet."

"Well we'll just do a fly-by first. If we find something, great, we can work from there. If not, we can always go back when I get my mojo working." Besides, Dean wasn't going to sit around waiting for something that may or may not happen. "So first, we gotta drop Sam off somewhere safe," he said, turning to Gabriel who hadn't said anything since the mention of the devil's gate.

"What?" Sam squawked, all offended and pissed. "Dean, I can help you with this!"

"Yea sure, Sherlock. You can provide tech support, but last time I checked, you're the only one without super special flying abilities."

"I don't see you sprouting any wings either," Sam said, which would have been perfectly valid a month ago.

But now, Dean could just sling an arm around Castiel's shoulders and slide himself under one massive wing with a smirk. "Well I got a pair on rent to buy, so I'm covered."

"I could take the moose," Crowley offered with a smile that Dean did not like one bit. The twitch in his brother's cheek suggested he had similar misgivings.

"Thanks, but no thanks," Sam said drily. "But Gabriel..."

"No can do, Samu. That's somewhat of a no fly zone for me. You kids are doing great. Definitely the right direction." The angel gave them a wink and two thumbs up like some overly enthusiastic game show host.

"What-"

"But I've got my own load of demons to deal with. In fact, I've had two of my less urgent and frankly, less attractive, charges on hold for the last fifteen minutes so I've got to run before the boss has me out of a job. Call me when you get back and want to work out the whole prophet of the lord schtick. Toodles!"

"What the hell?" Dean screamed after him, but the angel was long gone. Castiel's shrug pulled his attention to the fact that he still had his arm around the angel's neck, practically touching the gunmetal grey feathers, sleek and just shy of shiny so they weren't flashy like Gabriel's or gaudy like Michael's.

"Gabriel has never exhibited the same level of pride in his work as most other angels," Castiel explained, but it didn't make much sense to Dean. Since when did an angel not care about a yawning doorway to hell? And wasn't Gabriel the one who brought them into this in the first place?

"Right," he said, though nothing really was in this scenario. He unwound his arm from the angel's shoulders and sat down across from Sam.

"I need you to do some research for me. Find out anything you can on a devil's gate and how we can close it. That way, if we find it, we'll have some idea of what to do. You got that?"

His brother didn't even have to open his mouth for Dean to read the 'I know what you're trying to do' off his face, but to his relief, his brother just grumbled out a, "Fine," that was so bitchy it would have put Baby Jane to shame.

"And hey! You get to go to Thailand! You always said you wanted to travel the world."

"Right, and hiding out from the authorities while supporting your fugitive brother is the best way to live out your dreams," Sam drawled.

"That's the spirit!"

"Before you dump me in whatever shady hellhole you've got lined up, mind if we grab a bite to eat? Bela wasn't exactly eager to get me dinner."

"Yea, sure!" Dean grinned, because getting food was the least of the sacrifices he'd make to keep Sam safe and, if not happy, only mildly pissed. "Who's up for burgers?"


	26. Round These Parts

_Author's Notes: I'm sorry for the mess :C Three chapters this week, but two are the ones I cut from between 19 and 20 that I mentioned in the last update. "20: Plus a Sharpie" and "21: Minus Some Boots and Dignity" are new. Stuff happens in them that I think are important character-wise and world-wise but not necessarily plot-wise except it (hopefully) gives the motivation for some of the decisions the characters make._

_Thank you all for sticking around and hopefully you'll still be here at the end. The reviews are greatly appreciated! And um... to that one guest... I will probably never write Adam/Dean... sorry, wrong tree._

Castiel had not noticed it before at the hospital, but Dean was a different man with his brother, at least on the outside. His smile was wider, his shoulders relaxed, and his eyes only swept the room once every ten minutes instead of every five. Castiel had brought them back to the restaurant in Florida, and though Dean tempted him with another cheeseburger, he left them there to pursue further information.

He found Kali in India, smearing kohl onto her eyelids at an ancient brass mirror in a small dressing room, air hanging heavy with incense. The dark markings were not restrained to her face. Her arms and legs were painted in fierce patterns of circles and triangles, swirling together to give the impression of skulls wrapped around her limbs. She was preparing for war.

"Angel, what are you doing here?" the demon asked without pausing. Castiel caught her eye in the polished brass. She looked truly fearsome, her face nearly covered in a piercing blue design that seemed to give her a dozen eyes.

"You doubt," she surmised, putting down the cosmetic tube and spinning around on her stool to face him.

And he did, though the demon couldn't possibly know to what extent. "What is your stake in this?" he asked without preamble. Crowley may try to trick him with words, spin entire mountains of sugar floss around a bitter truth, but Kali did not seem like one to hide behind rhetoric.

"Tell me, Castiel. Do you love your father?"

"Of course," the angel answered without pause. The one thing he could always rely on was the love of his father, even if his brothers and sisters should all falter.

Kali nodded, satisfied with his quick response. "I had a father once, and I loved him much as you do yours. Except my father was tangible, mortal, rather than a God, though there were those that framed him as such. And he was righteous, humble, and good. He was my world in my formative years, and he was how I expected the rest of the world to be as well." She paused and gave him a speculative look, gauging his reaction. Castiel had none but polite confusion, though he could guess the ending of this particular story. "The demons took him away from me, from this world. I do not know whether they did it in fear or jealousy, and it does not matter. They have plagued me and my siblings ever since, tireless bloodhounds scenting our trails, worse even than you angels in their prejudice. Many more of my brethren have fallen to hell's jaws than to heaven's wings. And as they hunt us ceaselessly, I shall hunt them."

"Robert Singer said Bela could kill the black-eyed demons," he said thoughtfully.

"Yes, and Bela is nothing but a child compared to the terror I have become. I have a thousand and one ways in which to take down a demon," she spat the word like bug caught in her throat. "You angels are actually quite dull. Humans have created so many more techniques to usher in death, and I need only tweak them slightly to annihilate hell scum."

"You are not from hell," Castiel stated more than asked.

"Perhaps I am simply from a different hell," Kali answered enigmatically, a ghost of a smile passing over her cherry-red lips. "I am a demon after all."

Castiel accepted the non-answer, for now at least. Kali acted as an ally, though not a friend. "And Crowley? He shares your hatred of these other demons?"

"Crowley is old, almost as old as I am," Kali sighed, obviously frustrated with the younger creature. "But he has been somewhat spoiled. He has forgotten the days of light and glory, instead choosing to revel in the human degradation of wealth and power."

Castiel nodded in understanding, although Kali's devotion to destruction seemed just as perverse as she made Crowley sound. A trickle of mirth from the other side of the world showed that Dean was well and, likely, laughing at him.

"He hates them, but as a fox hates the hound. He wishes they simply leave him alone. He will take them down should they sniff at his door, and his technique is rather impressive, but that is the end of his involvement."

"But he was here."

"He doesn't want this interfering with his business. If the world shifts too far, even the widest dunghill will topple."

"And what is this business?"

Kali pursed her lips into a ruby moue and gave Castiel a considering look.

"Crowley may be a vile toad, but he is still my brother. His business will remain his business, angel," she replied coolly, picking up a few wire trinkets from the vanity and snapping the golden rings around her wrists and elbows.

"And Gabriel?"

"Gabriel is unimportant," she snapped, eyes blazing in a way that told Castiel that the other angel was anything but. Strange, considering the other angel had never given any indication of knowing Kali before, much less forming a friendship.

Suddenly a burst of irritation and impatience surged through his link to Dean's soul, though Castiel could tell it wasn't directed at him. He staggered under the strength of it, like the hunter was standing right beside him, radiating annoyance. One wing flapped hard to keep balance, knocking into an image pinned to the wall.

Kali must have found his behavior very strange, but she didn't betray any apprehension. If anything, she seemed calmer, especially with her hands wrapped around the handles of two gleaming scimitars.

"I am ready," she stated simply, gleaming head to toe in dyes and jewelry like some figure out of a fairy tale. Castiel could understand, now, why there were still pockets in Asia that worshiped pagans. If a human caught sight of Kali in full battle dress, eyes glowing unearthly yellow, it would be easy to mistake her for a deity.

"We will meet you in Naples, on the western end of Tribunali Street."

The demon nodded and disappeared in that strange swirl of ethereal smoke.

Sam and Dean were lounging in the corner booth where Castiel had left them. Dean was still eating a slice of pie as Sam spoke excitedly of some Byzantine texts he had found concerning prophets and angels. Castiel could not risk appearing in the restaurant, so he continued on to a parking lot two blocks away, landing inside an empty minivan. He sat in the second row of seats and let his wings spill out into the back.

"Hey, man. What's up? Finally decided to take up my offer on that bacon cheeseburger after all?" Dean answered on the second ring of their burner phones, another gift from Kali, sounding like anyone speaking to an old friend. It was a smart affectation in case anyone was listening.

"Are you okay?" he asked, a bit worried by the hunter's earlier outburst.

"Huh? Yea. Why? Something happen?"

"I... I felt something," he said carefully, "From you. You seemed... unhappy."

"Awesome! You got that?" Dean laughed and Castiel could hear Sam's muffled, "It actually worked?"

"Dean, what is going on?"

"Sammy here was being a little bitch and talking about feelings and crap." Castiel didn't understand Dean's explanation, but he sounded smug.

"Have you finished eating?"

"Yea, what's your 20?"

"Two blocks east. There's a parking lot in front of a fitness center. Head towards the northeast corner."

"Be there in five."

It was frustrating to be the one waiting, hampered not by ability but by caution. He could be at the hunter's side in an instant. Perhaps this is why angels spent so much time learning patience. Castiel closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind of all turmoil, focusing on the reverberations of the world around him and how it resonated with his Grace. They were all his father's creations. Nothing was meant to be in conflict, even the lion and the gazelle lived in a form of synchronization with their environment. Except he could find no harmony in his current predicament. The only point of clarity was Dean's conviction, but a single point could never provide balance.

He did not feel calm at all when someone tapped on the tinted glass of the passenger side window. Dean was smiling, waving about something wrapped in foil.

"Hello Dean, Sam," Castiel greeted the brothers after flapping out of the van, stretching his wings out to the sides after having them cramped by the car.

"Thank frack you guys can fly. I mean Sam complains about leg cramps because he's a giant mutant sasquatch, but your wings would never fit into my baby. Here."

Castiel caught the silver packet and the oily scent of beef, pork, and onion wafted out invitingly. He took a moment to appreciate the warmth that radiated from his hands and from his chest as he carefully placed the burger into his breast pocket. There was no time for him to indulge at the moment, but perhaps there would be later.

"Thank you, Dean." He was unaccustomed to receiving gifts. Gabriel had brought things back, but they were never specifically for him, and if they were, they were often meant as gags. Rachel had only ever given him the flower in his wallet, which he still treasured as a sign of her friendship. He wished that the burger could last as long.

"Sure," the hunter brushed his gratitude off with a shrug. "So where's the she-devil?"

"Kali is meeting us in Italy." He turned to the younger Winchester, "I'll bring you to the safehouse now."

"Yea, sure," Sam grumbled. "Just give me a sec." He turned to his brother and threw his arms around his neck.

"Sam!" Dean squawked in protest, digging his fingers into his brother's ribs in retaliation.

"Be careful," Sam instructed, unfazed.

"Yea, yea, get off me you overgrown ewok," Dean grumbled, giving his brother a few ineffectual pushes. Castiel had seen the hunter fight before, power and precision entangled into a flawless routine that he'd never guess from the uncoordinated flailing of the man engulfed in his brother's arms. Dean was never soft, but here his sharp edges were curling inwards and Castiel wondered what it would take for them to disappear altogether.

"Call me when you get back," Sam insisted as he took a step back, letting his brother go.

"Yea sure, Samantha. Don't want you pining by your phone all day."

"You're such a jerk."

"Bitch," Dean answered with warmth.

The flight back to Thailand was short and easy with Sam landing on the porch with far more grace than Dean had. He had planned to return immediately, but Sam placed a hand on his elbow, stopping him.

"Hey Cas, I just wanted to make sure... you'll watch out for him, right? And I know it's kind of your job with you being his guardian and all but also just... do it as a friend. I know Dean acts all tough and callous but he needs someone stop him from doing something stupid. And he won't let me because I'm the little brother and all but... just... watch out for him." Sam fidgeted, shoving his hands in his pockets. The request was nothing that Castiel would not have been doing anyways, but it heartened him to know that Sam cared for his brother as much as Dean did.

"Of course, Sam," he told him. "Do you still have the adapter Kali gave you?"

"Yup!" the young man replied brightly, holding up the black cartridge.

"And you remember Plan B?"

"Yup. Got it all safe in here," Sam confirmed, tapping his laptop bag. "And um, thanks. I'll see you when you guys get back."

"Yes. Goodbye Sam."

Dean was leaning over the hood of the minivan, scribbling on a piece of paper when Castiel returned. He peered curiously at the note as the hunter pinned it under one of the windshield wipers.

_Check your suspension/shock absorbers_

"Saw some scalloping on the tires. I worked as a mechanic for a few years while Sam was finishing up high school," the hunter explained, capping the sharpie and placing it back in his pocket.

"You did not immediately become a hunter?" Castiel was surprised. He had always assumed Dean had immediately joined the academy, following in his father's footsteps. His dedication to hunting made it difficult to imagine him as anything else.

"Nah, I had to stick around until Sammy got his giant self into college," Dean shrugged, a distant sorrow flashing through his soul. The years between his father's death and his entrance into the academy were clearly unpleasant for Dean. He should ask about it, but not now. Kali was waiting for them.

"We should go." Castiel reached over to take the hunter's elbow. He waited for the hunter's nod and brought them to Naples. Kali was standing in an alcove of the central spire of the church that ended the street. Her bright eyes and gold jewelry the only things gleaming in the shadows.

"Whoa," Dean gasped when he stumbled onto the ground, coming face to face with the demon. "Wild party?"

The demon pushed herself off the wall and leveled a scimitar at the hunter without any intent behind the motion.

"Watch yourself, Winchester. You may be the prophet, but you are still human."

"Kali," Castiel cut in. There was no need for this posturing, not when they all needed each other.

"We'll start on the eastern end of the arc and see if you manage to pick anything up," Kali instructed them, lowering her blade.

"Do you know anything more of what we should look for?" he asked her.

"It's a gate to hell, so I'm going to say fire, brimstone, overwhelming sense of evil," Dean guessed.

"It will not be so obvious. It has gone undetected for over two thousand years," Kali sniffed.

"Fine," Dean. "But I'm supposed to have some prophet sense right? We'll see if anything tingles."

"Unfortunately, that is the best that we can hope for," the demon sighed. "I will take the lead."

The demon took flight in a blaze of darkness, an streak of ink seeping into cracks of the world. They criss-crossed the Italian countryside, streaking through the buildings and roads of cities and small towns, the trees that covered the countryside, over the rocky face of the mountains and hills. Castiel stayed alert in case they should encounter another angel mid-flight, though the chances were slim. They were going slower than he was used to, hampered by Kali's speed, but even that may have been too fast. When they paused, halfway through the first sweep, Dean collapsed onto his knees, panting heavily. Castiel knelt down next to him, worried that the hunter was sick or injured and for some reason hadn't told him.

"Holy shit," the hunter groaned. "I thought those jumps were bad. How the hell do you handle staying like that for so long?" He flipped over to sit on the ground, leaning against a lone tree that jutted out of the hillside.

"I apologize," Castiel said quickly, ashamed that he hadn't considered the effect of extended flight on a human charge. Possessing part of an angel's grace should have cushioned the effect on the Hunter's soul, but their bond was less than conventional. "Perhaps we should return-"

"No, just," Dean took a deep breath, clenching his fists over his stomach. "Can you go a little slower? Or I don't know how this works. More in this plane of existence? All I can feel is my insides churning and I couldn't even tell you what color the fucking trees are much less if there's a portal to hell hidden inside them."

"I can try," Castiel promised, though he wasn't sure if their speed would improve the state of the hunter's soul as it thrummed around the shard of grace.

When they set out again, Kali flew almost lazily, less a stream of smoke than an amorphous cloud. Castiel paid more careful attention to Dean this time as well, making sure he was not jostled, keeping his wings straight out in an approximation of a glide to steady their flight. They swung south, going back over the last stretch of land.

Castiel was too preoccupied with buffering the soul against the aether to notice the foreign presence before it barrelled into them, yanking them out of flight. Castiel panicked, wrapping his arms around the hunter and flaring his wings out to his sides. They were not meant for physical flight, their flesh and blood bodies far too heavy to be sustained by his wingspan, but it would slow them down. Luckily, they came out of the aether less than twenty feet off the ground and skidded to a halt against the hard stony ground of a mountain. He'd rolled in the final few seconds so that he landed on his back with Dean sprawled across his chest.

There was a painful throb in three of his four shoulders and a murkiness to his vision that suggested he'd hit his head somewhere along the line. Most likely against the ground.

"What the hell," Dean moaned, rolling over onto his knees.

Castiel opened his mouth to answer, but a shooting pain ripped through his torso when he took a breath, so all that came out was a strangled gasp.

"Cas? Shit, Cas, don't move. Hey, hey buddy." The hunter sounded distant, like he was walking away, but he could tell that Dean was still there, right beside him.

A light tap against his cheek made him blink his eyes a few times and the darkness resolved itself into a pair of green eyes.

"Gotta stay with me. Don't pass out. Something ripped a huge gash up your side."

But that couldn't be right. He didn't feel anything on his side. It was just his head and his shoulders that screamed in pain. He struggled to sit up, to see what it was the hunter was talking about, but warm hands pressed him gently back to the ground.

"No. Stay still. Shit. I have to find something to patch you up with. Damn it. We should have picked up a med kit. Why the hell didn't I think of that?"

Castiel stared up at the sky as he listened to Dean's voice rumbling along. The sky was surprisingly clear for this time of year, just a few wisps of clouds hanging in the air. The hunter had a nice voice, strong and clear. It sounded worried, though. Which wasn't good. Dean shouldn't sound so worried. He would heal. Physical wounds hurt, but they could not kill an angel. The hunter should know that. There was a grey speck circling them in the air. Perhaps it was a northern goshawk. The bird spiraled closer to them, plummeting at an alarming rate. It had most likely spotted a squirrel or a hare.

But its shape was blurring, not the right shape for a goshawk. Not the right shape for any kind of bird, actually.

"Dean," he croaked and the hunter's voice stopped. He heard the man call his name a few times and he struggled to lift his arm, but his shoulder twinged hard and his hand dropped back to the ground.

The gray speck wasn't a speck anymore. It was much bigger than a goshawk. She was much bigger than a goshawk.

"Look up," he tried this time and he heard a shuffling as the hunter moved away slightly.

"Crap!" the hunter yelled, and the man loomed into his vision, knife held in one hand, flashlight in the other.

The woman dropped out of the air and out of Castiel's line of sight. If his neck weren't so stiff, he'd be able to turn his head and see who she was. Instead, all he could do was listen.

"Stay the hell away!" he heard Dean yell. The hunter moved forward so Castiel couldn't see him anymore.

"And why would I do that?" came a woman's voice, deep and unhurried, a lilt at the end suggesting amusement, completely unworried by the hunter. She wasn't an angel. She hadn't had wings from the brief glimpse he'd caught of her. And she wasn't a demon, there was no sense of discomfort coming from her direction. She wasn't human either. He didn't feel a soul. In fact, he didn't sense anything from her, like she was air or stone, something that wasn't alive, and that thought sent a chill down his spine.

Castiel heard a faint click followed by a brief laugh.

"Shit," Dean muttered.

"Nice try, but that's not going to work on me." Her voice was thick, like lava, rolling over them in molten waves. It was a voice that suggested terrible things to Castiel as he struggled to get up.

"I said stay the hell away," Dean snarled again.

There was a brief scuffle and a cry of pain that made Castiel's stomach clench painfully. "No," he whispered, heaving himself unto his screaming elbows. The beam of the fallen flashlight fell across a figure, female, casting her edges in yellow light. He could just barely make out her long dark hair and round face over her form-fitting clothing. But what drew his attention was the man slung over her shoulder like he weighed nothing more than a feather. A length of tape was fixed over the hunter's mouth and it reduced the angered shouting to muffles. More tape was wrapped around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides and, though Castiel couldn't see, it most likely extended down to the hunter's feet.

"Dean!" he cried out, trying to use his wings to lever himself off the ground, but the sudden pain that burst from his side saw him collapsing back onto the ground.

"Well, hello pretty," the woman, the creature said, and he could hear the leer in her voice, even if he couldn't see it.

"Let him go," Castiel snarled, tipping back onto his side, ignoring the tearing of flesh.

"Oh," she cooed, "But I haven't even gotten a chance to play with my new toy yet."

"Who are you," he coughed, pulling one leg under him. She didn't move, watching him with a tilted head as he fought to stand.

"I would say God's gift to mankind, but, well," she drawled, "that'd be giving credit to the wrong person."

"You are a demon," he muttered, as he finally lurched upright. Sticky liquid ran down his left side to drip off his fingers, and one of his wings refused to move no matter what he did. His grace was still depleted from the wraith's nest. He was an angel but he was so ineffectual, and this demon seemed to know it, to revel in it.

"Such a dirty mouth on you," she tutted. "You're making me blush."

"Let Dean go or I will smite you," he growled, trying to focus his eyes on her features, but everything kept blurring and blanking out. It was an empty threat and he knew it. He had a feeling that whatever grace he had left was being burned up in simply keeping him alive. Dean's soul glimmered, tempting in its offer and Castiel was growing desperate. Reaching for it that first time had been so simple, like opening a lock to let the ocean wash over the channel.

But before he could decide, the demon took a step and was suddenly right before him, so fast that he didn't even see her take flight. He reeled back, losing his tentative balance, stopped from falling only be a slender hand buried in the front of his uniform.

"Can't play with my new toy without its batteries," she smiled and yanked sharply on his shirt. He lurched forward onto the demon and felt her lips press onto his forehead. "Good night, angel," she murmured as he finally fell unconscious.


	27. Inside the Belly of the Beast

Dean watched in horror as Castiel collapsed against the demon bitch before throwing all his weight to one side, trying to tip himself out of her grip. It didn't do anything. She just tightened her arm around his waist, pinning him firmly to her shoulder.

_Cas_, he tried to scream, except the duct tape made everything he said sound like a homogenous rumble.

The angel couldn't be dead. He would feel it, wouldn't he?

"Dean, Dean, Dean. Calm down. He'll be fine. Just taking a little nap, is all," she chided, wrapping an arm around Castiel's waist and hauling him up to her other shoulder.

_What the fuck did you do, bitch?_ came out as a string of unintelligible grunts, but she seemed to get the gist of it because she grinned with all her teeth before taking a single step.

Dean's stomach lurched and he fought down the urge to vomit. Of all the ways to go, choking on his own puke was probably at the bottom of Dean's list. Tears streamed down his face as he swallowed over and over again, so preoccupied with controlling his bowels that he didn't notice the scenery change until he'd been dumped unceremoniously on cold tile.

The room was white, and very clean. Sterile, the scent of bleach stinging his nose. It reminded him of a doctor's office, with the linoleum counter stuffed full with teal-faced drawers and what looked like a dentist's chair bolted to the ground. Air rattled through the ducts, roaring just behind the walls, though Dean didn't see any obvious vents.

And the room was stupidly hot, like Texas in August, right before a storm.

"And what have we here?"

Dean jolted upright, scrambling back against the wall as best as he could while trussed up like some hillbilly's dinner, and wasn't that an unsettling thought? Especially since the man standing over him had the kind of smile that was normally directed towards Thanksgiving turkeys and fresh-baked pies. And no, that wasn't a man, he realized while his stomach tried to sink and rise at the same time. It was one of the demons from Central. Michael, the bastard, had let them get away.

"Oh, you're here. Don't have too much fun with that one, Alistair. He's got to stay alive until this one gives up the goods," the she-demon from before warned with a smirk.

_What the hell do you want with Cas?_ he yelled, but both demons ignored him.

"You underestimate me," the man, Alistair, drawled, sticking out his tongue to lick his lips, slow and obscene. "There are so many things the human body can take before it finally gives up. It's really quite a beautiful work of art." The demon was practically panting with delight, eyes never leaving Dean's face. Dean had to fight the urge to gag.

"Mine's bigger," she quipped, running a hand over Cas' limp wings. Dean glared at her on his friend's behalf.

"Angel," Alistair snarled, curling his lip in disgust before turning back to Dean. "No, I think I'll stick with the sins of the flesh."

"No wonder he hates you," the other demon muttered, turning on her heel to leave.

"He hates everyone, sweetheart," Alistair chuckled, soft and low, as he walked over to the counter, pulling out plastic packets from the drawers. "Just because he flashes you those pretty smiles and talks to you all gentle-like doesn't mean he sees you as anything other than just another failure."

Dean looked frantically around the room for something, anything to cut through the tape on his arms while the demons were distracted with sniping at each other.

"Not for long," she grinned, shifting the angel on her shoulder. "I'm going to earn myself some wings."

The words sent chills down Dean's spine as he locked eyes with the demon. She gave him a sultry wink before slipping out the door. Dean craned his neck, trying to get a glimpse outside, but all he could make out was more shiny white tiling and whitewashed walls before other demon crouched down in front of him.

"Now, now, let's make you a little more comfortable," the demon said, the staccato tap of his words setting off every warning bell in Dean's head. When Alistair reached out for him, Dean prised his legs off the ground to kick out. There really was no chance for him do any real damage, but hell if he was just going to submit without a fight.

"Ah, so the bitch hasn't taken all the fight out of you. Good. I like them feisty," Alistair chuckled and grabbed Dean's ankles, tightening his grip until Dean could feel his bones grinding together. He breathed heavily, pushing down on the pain. This was nothing compared to all the things he's broken and burned in the past.

The demon hauled him up with one arm, leaving Dean squirming like a caterpillar still stuck in its chrysalis, back dragging along the floor. Alistair didn't seem to mind though, just hummed as he draped Dean over the chair on his stomach so that he had a great view of the floor. If he had been inclined to have the shit scared out of him, he would start thinking about how fucking strong angels would have to be to take out these demons, and how batshit insane the she-demon would have to be to take out Cas, even if his batteries were a little low. But he was Dean Winchester and he was too busy bullshitting a way out of this to be scared.

His window of opportunity closed just a bit more when Alistair yanked him back by the hair and clamped his head to the backrest with a metal contraption from hell. Which it really could be in this situation. The demon ripped open one of the plastic packets, singing a lone tune that sounded a bit like a gregorian chant. He pulled out a gleaming metal scalpel and Dean tried to kick the demon again when he got closer.

"Be careful now," Alistair sang without breaking out of the melody he carried. "Don't want you to hurt yourself. You should leave that up to me." His teeth were a faint yellow as he leaned over Dean, like they would be white if he just brushed the coffee stains off of them, and his breath didn't smell like anything at all, though the hunter expected something like sulfur or putrid flesh. Dean braced himself for the coming bite of the blade, but when the scalpel came down, it cut a neat slit down the duct tape over his right arm, though Alistair's hand on his wrist served essentially the same purpose. Dean felt like he was eight years old again, trying to arm wrestle the teenager from the next motel room over, unable to move his hand even an inch. Caleb had let him win in the end. Alistair just shackled his elbows and wrists to the chair.

All four limbs were strapped down by the time Alistair straightened back up, the tune he was humming flattening out into a single extended note that hung in the air like a buzzing mosquito. "I think I'll keep that on for now," Alistair lilted, tapping a single finger to the duct tape over Dean's mouth. "Can't have you interrupting."

The scalpel was placed back on the counter with a light clack and Dean furrowed his brow in confusion. Not that he was complaining, but he'd been preparing himself for some heavy duty torturing session for state secrets or angelic agendas or for the demon's sick amusement. Instead, Alistair pulled a boxy black cell phone that looked like it came from the nineties out of his pants pockets and punched in a few numbers before holding it to his ear. The demon eyed Dean and placed a mocking finger to his lips with a quiet shush.

The demon started humming again while he waited for whoever it was to pick up. Maybe the humming was the torture. It was never loud enough for Dean to figure out what he was humming, but too loud for him to forget it was there.

"Now, is that anyways to greet someone who's giving you a hand?" Alistair said lightly when his humming finally stopped, slight smile falling from his lips.

Or maybe the damned heat was the torture. His shirt was probably clinging to his chest by now, if he could lift his head enough to look down. Hell, in ten minutes the tape on his mouth would probably just fall off from all the sweat.

"I found the thing you were looking for, and I must say, you've picked quite the little spark."

Dean fell still and silent, straining his ears, trying to hear whoever was on the other side. At this point, half the world seemed to be looking for him.

"Believe it or not, he waltzed right up to our front door, him and his angel friend. I think they were looking for us, actually. Can't imagine how they found out."

And shit. Had they actually manage to stumble across the devil's gate? Not the most ideal of circumstances, but if he and Cas managed to get out of here in mostly single pieces, they could figure out a way to close the thing.

"Yes, both of them. But I only have the human. Ah, someone who will be very unhappy to see you. Yes, that one, she has the angel. Someone made her a little desperate for a pair of wings."

Dean couldn't suppress the scream at that one, muffled as it was. The bitch wanted Cas' wings? As far as he knew, wings weren't like kidneys. You couldn't just cut them out and sew them onto someone else. But maybe wings were like kidneys for angels and demons. Fuck. Alistair pursed his lips at him and give a little shake of his head, picking up the scalpel to twirl through his fingers.

"As soon as you get here, he'll know. Remember, Michael," he sang, "You do still need me, unless you're ready to get your own hands dirtied. The Marigold Room. Yes, of course, not until you give me the green light."

The demon shoved the phone back in his pocket and sauntered over to the chair, glancing speculatively up and down Dean's body before starting to pick at his clothes. After a moment, Dean saw the demon's hand come up, strips of duct tape stuck to the end of his fingers. He must have been peeling the leftover pieces off his pants and shirt.

A few of the pieces Alistair glanced at before tossing into a corner, but the rest, he brought up to the head of the chair. It was about when the demon started carefully placing the duct tape chunks on Dean's head and face that the hunter decided the guy wasn't just evil, he was one fry short of a Happy Meal.

Alistair was holding the last piece of tape contemplatively, turning it this way and that, when his head snapped up and he grinned, slapping the tape right on Dean's hairline.

"What are you doing?" someone asked, and the voice was familiar, though Dean couldn't immediately place it.

"Oh, just a little prep work," Alistair answered, moving out of Dean's line of sight.

"You presume too much," the new guy stated, imperious and cold and crap. That was Michael's voice. Dean cursed himself for not recognizing it immediately and twisted his arms in their restraints. If he could just dislocate his thumb, he might be able to get past the wrist shackles. Inside his head, he tried to scream Michael is here in hopes that Cas would somehow pick up on it. Everyone knew that strong emotions, particularly fear, carried through pretty well, but they carried cell phones for a reason.

"You want something from him, and he obviously isn't prepared to just hand it over."

So this demon at least didn't know Dean was the man of the millennia, the big kahuna. His hands stung as the metal cuffs ripped into the skin at the base of his palms.

"And my skillset is very particular, especially in these kind of circumstances," Alistair continued.

"Yes," Michael said with obvious distaste. Dean could be a little happy that the guy thought he was too good for torture. Especially since it was his hide on the line. "But your methods seem rather primitive. He is not even properly immobilized."

Michael's face came into view and Dean lurched forward, though he barely made it a millimeter before he was stopped by the straps across his chin and forehead. He really wanted to rip the guy a new one, right in the middle of his impassive face. There was a brief flash of triumph when the dick's jaw twitched, squashed immediately when the Director brought two fingers up to Dean's temple and he felt his entire body go rigid. He couldn't even swallow. Since when did angels do full-body paralysis?

"There is a slightly different direction I want you to take with this one. It will still play to your strengths," Michael conceded, tilting his head at Dean, thinking horrible evil dictator thoughts.

Suddenly, a gust of air blew through the heated air and Dean would have sighed in relief if he could actually do more than take shallow half-breaths. At least Michael had left him that much.

"Alistair, I'm so disappointed," comes a new voice, and this one Dean has never heard before. It's definitely a guy, middle-aged, though that didn't really mean anything given that this new guy was probably also an angel or a demon.

"Do not discard him," Michael snapped. "After all, you were the one who sent him into my domain. Did you really think I wouldn't know of this?"

"I thought you trusted me," the other voice whined. Whined like a little kid, asking to stay up for another five minutes.

"Obviously I shouldn't have," Michael hissed, almost curling into a snarl. Dean had never heard the guy so riled up before and listen to the guy using contractions like a big boy. Give the new guy a silent cheer. I don't know what the fuck is going on, but now there's Michael, Alistair (demon dude), and some new guy. He could only hope that the angel was even awake to pick up on the slight edge of panic. The heat and the fact that he could barely breath weren't really helping.

"Mikey, come on! We can't just let him live. He's even worse than Muhammad! And we had Raph back then. Who the hell is Castiel even?"

"Malik Idris, Sariel Hong, Miguel Paniagua."

"Nobodies!"

There are words and names and Dean's head was swimming because if Michael or someone else didn't notice soon he was going to suffocate and their argument was going to have the least climactic ending in the history of nefarious plotting. But if New Guy wanted him dead, maybe that was the plan after all.

He didn't expect to be rescued by an insane demon that day, but it's Alistair who chirped, "Boss?"

Two voices called back an irritated, "What?"

"Just thought you might want to know, but the pet here is starting to look a little green around the edges and as fun as airway constriction may be, there is a limit."

Michael's stormy face and white wings loomed over and two fingers were pressed again to Dean's forehead. Glorious oxygen filled his lungs as Dean's chest loosened. He still couldn't move his face, but he'd take his victories where he could.

The New Guy walked over as well, but stood over Dean's shoulder so he couldn't see anything but the tips of a pair of pure white wings. Another shady angel. When he got out of this, he really had to figure out how deep the rot really went.

"This is your champion?" New Angel asked, leaning over so that Dean could see the top of a blond head. "I dunno. He's kind of short."

"You will cease these ridiculous games, Heylel," Michael ordered.

"They're not games," New Angel, or Heylel, sighed, blowing air through loose lips. "I almost got him at that motel in Lawrence."

Dean's shivered, which was a feat given the fact that he was still stunned and the room was pushing a hundred degrees, not that the angels or the demon seemed to notice. This guy was working with demons. And not just the yellow-eyed ones that could talk and hold a normal conversation almost like a human, but the black-eyed beasts. The soulless killing machines that were quicker and way smarter than any natural predator but had the utter savagery of something completely without compassion.

And they were likely close to the devil's gate. Dean was piecing together a puzzle that he didn't expect to be pretty.

"And don't call me that."

"That's your name," Michael snipped.

"Come on brother, we're living in the twenty-first century! I mean, they don't call you Mikail anymore."

"Then what would you like to be called."

"Gabe used to call me Lucy," New Angel suggested blithely.

The name set off another chain of panicked reasoning. The little fucker had sent them off to a trap. Except that didn't make sense either. Gabriel hadn't said anything during that entire discussion. And when he finally did open up his smart-ass mouth, it'd been to make plans for when they got back from this shtick. Gabriel hadn't expected them to find anything at all.

"I will not refer to you as Lucy."

Were they talking about another Gabriel? It was a pretty popular angel name. Hell, it was a pretty popular human name. Bigwigs in the Bible tended to get that.

"Fine," don't-call-me-Heylel, let out a long-suffering sigh. "Just call me Lucifer then."

What the hell kind of name was Lucifer?

"Lucifer," Michael grounded out like it physically hurt him to use the moniker. "The prophet is still our best option. Your abomination is an insult to our Father's creations."

"How bout this," Lucifer said, leaning an elbow on Michael's shoulder. "Let's make it a race. Your prophet against my abomination."

"No."

"Come on," the other angel wheedled, sagging against Michael's rigid form. "All you need is the angel to be alive. At least give her a chance to get her wings back."

And that was the cue for Dean to start thinking his head off. Setting the bar at 'alive' was never a good sign, more like a giant neon 'Danger Will Robinson' flashing on the horizon, and his stupid guardian needed some sort of heads up for when the demon-bitch tried to take his big-ass wings.

"They were never her wings," Michael spat out.

Never in a million years would Dean expect to spend time rooting for Michael, but there he was, hoping that Jason would beat Freddie because the kid in the hockey mask was saner than the dreamworld butcher.

"But what could it hurt?" Lucifer pressed. "She fails, you get your Dynamic Duo in the original packaging. She succeeds, you get your Messiah with a slightly more cooperative party on the other end of the leash. What are you afraid of? It's all His will, right?"

And this guy knew exactly what buttons he was pushing, because at the mere mention of 'His will' Michael's face lost its pallor of fratricidal rage and become contemplative.

"Very well. May our father be our judge."

Dean's heart sank.

"I will work on Dean while you work on Castiel. You will not kill either of them," he added, which only slightly dulled the horror of 'work on' rather than 'work with.' "And I will require the aid of Alistair, so you will not destroy him either."

The horror was back.

"If I may," the demon chimed in from somewhere over Dean's shoulder. "I prefer to work in the Petunia Room."


	28. Regarding the Wings in the Window

Castiel woke up slowly, painfully, completely unlike emerging from meditation. He was disoriented and felt like all his senses were dulled. The air was warm and a dull rumbling echoed through the walls. Wherever he was, he was alone. They'd been separated. He grasped for the signs of Dean and found him close, only two hundred meters away, but the bond felt strange, like it too had been dampened.

When he finally opened his eyes, he saw the unassuming white room with clean tiles and painted walls. His wings splayed out on either side of the narrow cot he'd been placed on. There was no other furniture, but a strange design was painted on the ceiling. It looked like a devil's trap, but the sigils were wrong. He didn't recognize any of them. And whereas a devil's trap sat within a neat circle, this ward spiraled out down the walls, trailing onto the ground before reconvening in a spiral. It spoke of protection and confinement at the same time.

Castiel brought his hand up to his side, though the entire arm felt like lead. His palm came away red and bloody. Little time had passed, then, an hour at most. His shoulders felt better than before, though his limbs moved sluggishly, his left wing not at all.

He was about to attempt sitting up when the single door in the wall to his right opened and the female demon from before walked in carrying a pillow under one arm.

"So Sleeping Beauty's finally up," she joked, closing the door behind her with a faint click. "You kept jerking around when I got near and reopening that fun little window to your ribs."

Castiel was struck again by how difficult it was to place the demon. He could physically see her, hear her, but he didn't feel anyone else in the room. It was a disconcerting throwback to the days just a few weeks back when he could barely feel anyone at all.

"What did you do to me?" he rasped, his voice scratchy and faint. His shoulders protested when he pried himself up onto an elbow.

"Put you to sleep for a little bit," she shrugged and walked over, sticking the pillow beneath his back as he eyed her warily. The chances of him being able to escape, much less defeat the demon were insubstantial.

"What do you want?" he tried this time, collapsing back onto the cot when his arm gave out. The extra cushioning was substantially more comfortable for his wings, though he still watched warily as she bent down to reach underneath the cot.

"Well that's a loaded question," she said with a laugh. "There are a lot of things a girl could want from you, but I'm just going to start with what I really need for now. Your help." The demon pulled out a basin of water and a black satchel.

"Why?" He felt drained, still, his grace leached away by the wound on his side. Had he been human, he would no doubt have died by now, whether by blood loss or internal damage.

Instead of answering him directly, the demon posed a question. "Look at me. What do you see?"

The obvious answer would be a woman with wavy brown hair and dark eyes, but he knew that wasn't what she meant.

"Nothing," he said, voice empty rather than harsh.

She nodded in agreement and reached into the basin, wringing out a wet cloth that had been resting on its side. "I'm just going to clean this off, and then I'll sew you back up."

"Don't touch me," he snarled, though it was an empty threat and she knew it.

"You'll heal faster if you're blood stops draining out of you like a broken faucet," she sneered and pressed the washcloth against his side. Castiel hissed at the contact, stinging and icy cold against his feverish skin.

"You attacked us," he accused.

"Sorry, but it's kind of hard to navigate without a pair of dusters strapped to your back." She smirked at him from under a thinly arched eyebrow, but he didn't understand that there was any humor to be found in this situation. Even if the hit had been an accident, she had come at them with a weapon.

By now, most everyone would have heard of the Grace-bonded human-angel pair, most likely from Balthazar's mouth, but few would know of the power associated with such a situation. Somehow she knew more than he did just two days prior.

"The staring is flattering," she said lightly, wiping off the blood farther down his side, where it had dribbled while he'd slept, "But it's not the best way to get to know a girl. Come on, I'm sure you're used to charming the ladies. Name, age, favorite color. Whether you like long walks on the beach or snuggling up in front of a fire."

If she wanted to talk, then he would let her, but he would not indulge in her mocking frivolities.

"Who are you?" he demanded.

"I used to have a different name, but now I go by Meg." She stared expectantly at him for a few moments before rolling her eyes and prompting, "And this is the part where you tell me your name or I'm just going to call you Clarence."

"You know who I am," he snapped, annoyed at himself for being unable to move, bewildered by the demon's odd behavior.

"And they say the art of conversation is dead," she sighed. "I'm going to get the extra blood off the wound now. Try not to move too much."

Even with the warning, he flinched at the touch of the cloth against his ragged flesh. He had to grit his teeth, focus on the steady pull of his diaphragm to ignore the pain. When Meg finally reached the end of the jagged line, right over his hip, he let out a wheezing breath, collapsing into the mat as the tension drained from his body. He brought his fingers up to his side, catching the rivulets of pink liquid as it slid down his side. It felt like water, cold and clear. Not holy oil then, though that did not preclude the possibility that the floor was drenched in it.

"I'm gonna wash this out with some saline, stitch you up, slap on a few bandages, and you can go back to questioning my motives while upright."

"I do not suspect your motives," he forced through gritted teeth. He had no doubt that she wanted something from him or Dean, the only questions was how she planned on achieving her goals. And of course, the other question that was weighing on him, "What are you?"

"I know you think I'm some sort of demon, but I'm not," she said fiercely, looking at him pointedly in the eye. "What I am, now, is empty, a vessel. I used to be an angel."

Castiel's eyes widened in disbelief. It was a blatant lie. Even with his senses dulled by exhaustion and injury, he could tell that there was not a trace of Grace within her. "You said you were not created by God," he accused, throwing her own contradictions in her face.

"No," she replied bitterly, rummaging through the bag by her feet to produce a plastic bottle and a wrapped nozzle. "Our father would not create an empty vessel. He would not take my wings and leave me with nothing but the mockery and rejection of my peers. He would not be cruel."

Though he did not trust the woman, angel or demon, there was a note of sincerity in her voice that made Castiel's heart ache in sympathy. He full well understood the loneliness that would come from exclusion, feeling like he was less than what he should be.

"Someone took your wings," he said, trying out the words on his own tongue. He had never heard of such a thing being possible. Angels only lost their wings in death. Losing their wings was death. Demons would sometimes take the soul from their human victims without killing them, but the body would eventually go insane.

"Yea," she answered as she fitted the nozzle onto the bottle, giving it an experimental squeeze that squirted a burst of water against her hand. "And I figure you'd be one of the only ones to believe me when I tell you who."

He waited as she went back into the bag and came out with a small vacuum pump. "Who?"

"Michael," she growled with such hatred that Castiel had no doubt it was genuine. "The jealous son of a bitch couldn't handle the fact that someone else could do better than him so he took them," she snapped, directing the first jet of saline at his side with a vicious squeeze, causing Castiel to lurch away in surprise.

"Stay still," she ordered, sucking away the liquid as it dripped out of the wound. The vacuum's whine was barely audible over the roar of the ventilation.

"How?" he gasped, half from pain and half from shock. Castiel's been hurt before, but he's never been to the hospital, never had someone else dress his wounds. He just tied himself back together and waited to heal. He sewed his own sling, mixed his own plaster. Never stitches though. He wasn't sure if they'd come out after he healed or if he'd have a permanent reminder of the fact that he was different, that he could be hurt.

"Michael is far more powerful than he advertises, and all that power, it's corrupted him. He's gone insane, seeing enemies where there are none, lashing out at those who can help. That's what he's doing to you, too. He wants your help, but he can't ask for it. He can't trust you. He has to control everything himself." Her eyes were shining as she talked, fear written clearly across her brow. The saline felt cold against his skin.

"I don't understand. What is Michael afraid of?" His mind worked furiously to untangle the truths from the lies. The Director had been acting rashly. Castiel still could find no reason for his own imprisonment or the timing for it. Was it simply, as Meg suggested, an attempt to control his movements? Rampant megalomania was a convenient explanation, but still did not solve the mystery that was Meg herself.

"Michael is afraid of the same things you are, the same things we all are. The demons are getting smarter, moving in groups, coordinating attacks. They're not the mindless beasts from a century ago. There are only so many angels on earth and we can't keep up."

"Why would that make him take your Grace?"

"I had the gall to stand up to him, to suggest another option."

Castiel flinched as the vacuum came too close to the open wound, pulling at the torn skin. "What other option?"

"I found out where the demons were coming from. There's a tear in the fabric of this world and the demons stream through it like a swarm of hornets from a burning hive. And I spent years attuning myself to it, learning its intricacies while staying hidden from the eyes of Hell. I figure out how to close it, Castiel," she said, squeezing her eyelids shut. "I could have stopped it, I could have stopped it all."

"Why would Michael stop you?" he rasped, breath shaking from tension.

"Because he doesn't want it closed," she hissed. "Without demons, he would lose all his power. What would humanity do with heaven's agents when they don't need us anymore? Would they welcome us still? Right now, Michael's word is law, not just amongst the angels, but a vast majority of the humans as well. He would lose that if the demons were to overwhelm us, but he would still lose that if they disappeared altogether."

She set down the saline and the pump beside her and dried him off with a soft towel. Her ministrations were gentle, almost caring.

He wanted to believe her, to believe that they had found their answer. Her words were alluring, drawing him in with everything he could ask for: absolution from Michael's denouncement, the location of the Devil's Gate, and most importantly, victory over the legions of darkness that they had spent millennia struggling against.

"How?" he asked, giving himself permission to hope, just a little.

"It is difficult to explain," she said, and he almost shut the door to that possibility, sealing it as false, but she continued, "But I'll try to spell this out for you." Meg used a pair of tweezers to pick out a small curved needle from a plastic packet. A long length of green thread was attached to the end, thin and barely visible.

"This is going to pinch," she warned as she pressed the needle tip to his side. He clenched his jaw as it pierced through his flesh, tugging the edges of his wound together. Her hands were quick, practiced as they worked sutures into his skin.

"Our Father made everything: this world, the Kingdom of Heaven, and the stinking Pits of Hell. And he's the one who put up the walls that separate them, giant one-way filters, and souls are the only things that can make it through. Angels and demons aren't supposed to pass the veil without His help. But an angel's grace is made of similar stuff, and if we know how, we can twist it to mesh with the veil. If I still had my Grace, I could seal the rift with my self, but Michael took that from me."

"I'll do it," Castiel declared without needing to think. "I can do it."

"It would take decades for you to learn how. I could teach you, but we don't have that kind of time. The demons are becoming stronger with every passing day."

"Then why did you bring me here?" he demanded angrily. "You say that I can help, and then you tell me that there is nothing that I can do before it's too late?"

"There is something you can do!" she insisted. "Lend me your Grace, Castiel. You are bonded to the Hunter, so you will not become the shell that I am doomed to be. I will take your Grace and I will save us all."

She had stopped stitching and now had his hand held between hers as she leaned over him, staring down at him with bright eyes full of emotion.

"Do it for your brothers and your sisters who have fallen in this fight. Do it for the billions of people you have sworn your existence to protect. Do it for Dean. They will never have to live in fear again. Children will be able to play outside the bounds of a demon trap. Angels can have lives outside of their duty. You would be saving so many."

Castiel couldn't breath, chasing her words into the silence, though everything sounded so loud. He was already feeling stronger, his bleeding staunched by the angel that now held his hand, warm and dry. He tentatively squeezed back, holding onto her and the lifeline that she had thrown to him. Everything that he could ask for, offered with a tentative smile. Slowly, he felt himself smiling back.

At first he thought it was his own heart pounding in his ears, but the steady beat was too sharp, too clear. The slow clap of palm against palm drew his eyes away from the angel above him and he jerked his hand back in shock when he caught sight of a man standing in the open doorway.

"Bravo, Meg," the man mocked, lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. "You almost had me tearing up with that one. Really, you should give up on trying to please daddy and go into acting. They'd love you in Hollywood."

"What are you doing here?" she snarled, standing up languidly to face him. Castiel gaped in horror when he recognized Zachariah without Meg's arm blocking half of his view. He looked haggard, hair nearly all gone, bags hanging from under his eyes. His limbs were pale and thin, peaking out from the thick robe he was wrapped within. But the most startling change was the empty space behind his shoulders. Zachariah had no wings.

"Hello, Castiel," the former angel greeted him, catching his stare. "I didn't expect to see you again, but imagine my surprise when Michael dropped in and asked me to keep an eye on your little tryst."

The mention of Michael and Zachariah's presence spoke of complications that he did not fathom. Once again, he and Dean were placed at their mercy. He checked the bond one more time, just to make sure, but Dean was still there, a few hundred meters away.

"Lucifer will hear about your interference," Meg said, an obvious threat. Castiel frowned at the unfamiliar name, yet another piece of this puzzle that he had not even known was missing.

Zachariah seemed unfazed by her hostility. "And what will he do, hm? Do you really think he'd care?"

"Of course he'd care. I almost-" she started but cut herself off.

"Oh, do go on, Meg," Zachariah taunted, giving Castiel a pointed nod. "I'm sure Castiel is bursting with curiosity."

"Who is Lucifer? What happened to your wings?" Castiel demanded, looking between the two wingless angels. "Did Michael take them?" He raised himself onto his elbows, wincing as the movement pulled at his sutures.

"Michael only takes what doesn't belong in the first place," Zachariah snapped, glaring at Meg.

"Then he didn't take Meg's wings," Castiel guessed.

"No, because Meg never had her own wings, isn't that right, Meg?"

She swallowed heavily, grinding her teeth together as her eyes bore into Zachariah's head.

"No, she stole hers from poor Anna Milton, and when Michael found out, he ripped that Grace right out.".

"Anna," Castiel murmured in horror, edging away from the demon, his feathers dragging harshly over the floor tiles.

"Oh don't worry about her. She can't do anything to you without some angelic assistance. And since you're not going to be helping her out now, she's lost her chance," Zachariah said with obvious delight.

"Lucifer-"

"If he was going to help you, he would have done it by now," Zachariah cut in harshly. "Not that Michael would let him." The angel broke off into a fit of coughing and a dark smile spread across Meg's face.

"And you think that you're different, that Michael actually cares about his discarded hand puppet?"

"He saved me," Zachariah spat out, voice scratched and wheezy.

"And then left you to die," Meg pointed out with a laugh.

"He had no other option," Zachariah retorted, straightening back up to look imperiously down his nose at the demon. "This vessel became unsuitable as soon as his Grace was removed. Even if he were to Bond with me again, the damage would only be stopped, not reversed."

Castiel watched warily from the cot, slowly folding his wings against his back. He still felt as if he was feeling everything through a layer of cotton, but the pain was receding and all his limbs were moving properly again.

Michael had formed a bond with Zachariah, which had been the source of his Grace, somehow, and now that it was gone, Zachariah was left an empty shell like Meg. A Grace bond would theoretically be possible, as bonded pairs could utilize their partner's Grace, but he could not understand how Zachariah or Meg had come to be, like suits of armor parading around with no one beneath the plates. And if they really were the same, he could find no reason for Zachariah's derision of the other 'vessel.'

"Spin it however you want. You're about as useful to him now as a blind puppy," Meg grinned.

"Michael sees more than potential tools when he looks at his offspring, but you wouldn't understand that would you? Always such a disappointment and Luci's losing interest." Zachariah pursed his lips and gave Meg a pitying look. "Sorry Meg, but you're going to have to work out your daddy issues with someone else. You've lost this one."

Castiel surreptitiously swung his legs off the bed, poised on the edge in case either of them decided to try anything, but Meg just strode through the door with her head held high, never looking back once. Zachariah grinned cheerfully after her as she stomped down the hall, leaning against the doorframe with one hand.

When she disappeared around the corner, Zachariah turned back around, rubbing his wrist.

"My offer still stands," he said. "We can't afford the same approach now with the murder wrap, but I can fix it so it looked like it was self defense, demonic possession."

Castiel rummaged through the bag on the floor and pulled out a roll of clean bandages that Meg hadn't gotten around to using. He shrugged off his coat, bloody but intact, and picked apart the tattered remnants of his uniform and shirt. "I am grateful for your intercedence with Meg, but I do not trust you now any more than I did before."

"Why not?" Zachariah asked, and it made Castiel pause in winding the bandage around his torso, wings getting in the way when he couldn't lift them for long. He expected sarcasm, anger, amusement, but the question only held curiosity.

"Why should I?" he asked in turn.

"Because," Zachariah said blithely, "I'm the only one who hasn't lied to you."

"Yet," Castiel bit out, cinching the bandages tight on his waist.

"I have no reason to. I don't want anything from you anymore, not for myself anyways."

"Then what do you want?"

"I want this to be over, Castiel. Angels have been on earth longer than humans, longer than demons. I think its about time they went home," he said sadly, looking off into the empty space to his right.

"They," Castiel repeated, stunned at the realization, "You said they. What are you?"

"You've read the Bible, haven't you?" Zachariah queried and Castiel nodded slowly, shrugging on his battered trench coat. "Then you know the story of Adam and Eve. Adam was alone until God took his rib and from it made woman, Eve. Well, Michael ripped out his own rib, metaphorically of course, and here I am."

"I don't understand. You are not a woman." Adam and Eve was a convenient story, a minimalization of the true advent of the human race. It was difficult to explain ten thousand men and women born from the arctic cold, but a single couple was easily handled. Zachariah was obviously simplifying his existence in the same way.

Castiel pushed himself off the bed and shuffled over to where Zachariah was still leaning in the doorway. "Please explain."

"Have you ever seen a fledgling, Castiel?"

There were few fledglings at any given time, but Castiel had worked in the Central offices for a little over a year, so he had seen far more than most. He nodded, wondering why Zachariah had asked.

"And what do they look like?" the other angel asked, eyes boring into Castiel's.

"They are small, and their wings are covered in down."

"But what do they look like?"

"They look like," Castiel frowned, searching for the answer that Zachariah had in mind. "They look like human infants with underdeveloped avian wings."

"They look human," Zachariah emphasized. "But to an angel, the human body is merely a contrivance. Even to you, your body is merely an inconvenience, but never a real threat. The other angels, they can barely even be hurt without holy oil."

"You had wings, but now you look completely human. That makes you vulnerable, weak. But that doesn't explain what you are. How did you have wings? Are you a mutated human, engineered to have additional appendages?" Castiel asked, half to himself.

"Let me finish, Castiel," Zachariah reprimanded him with a roll of his eyes. "Your Grace creates your body, creates your vessel."

"That is what Meg called you," Castiel interrupted again to a glare from the vessel.

"Yes, I am a vessel, but an incomplete one."

"Because you lost your Grace?"

"No," Zachariah shook his head. "Because the Grace I was created with was incomplete. I love Michael, not because he's my teacher or my boss. I love him because I am him, or at least an extension of him. Michael separated a piece of his Grace, forced it to create its own vessel, me."

Castiel gaped at Zachariah, taking a step back into the room to look at the angel with wide eyes. He didn't know what he was looking for, some sign that Zachariah was telling the truth, some trace of Michael on his body, some lingering Grace, but there was nothing. There was just an old man without a soul, wheezing in the doorway.

He touched his own side self-consciously. There was a man out there, named Jimmy Novak, who had found him twenty-seven years ago. He'd had dark hair, blue eyes, a sharp chin and a straight nose. Castiel had that hair, those eyes, the chin, the nose. He'd never thought of it farther than the mirror held up between angels and humanity. They were all images, not of each other, but of something greater than either. His body had only ever been a suit that he donned at birth like he donned the trench coat. And that was all Zachariah had left, an image of some un-named male.

And yet the puppet moved without anyone pulling the strings. The puppet was still capable of lies, of deceit, of choice between doing what was right and what was wrong. Zachariah could have been just any other human if not for the rapid disintegration of his body.

Castiel felt like another hole had been ripped in his body, deeper and larger and scarier than the one running up his side.

"I'm going to find Dean," he said dazedly, but Zachariah didn't move from the door. He just grimaced and leaned a little farther against the jamb. Castiel didn't care, even weakened as he was, Zachariah looked far frailer. He would just push past him. Except when Castiel took that first step out of the room, he was stopped by a wall, and it wasn't Zachariah. Half a foot of air separated him from the vessel, but he couldn't move further. Castiel brought up both his hands, pressing against the invisible barrier.

"What is this?" he hissed, leaning the entirety of his weight forward.

"Angel trap," Zachariah said, glancing up at the sigils trailing down from the ceiling. "It's far safer than the holy oil. We started developing it even before you pulled your escape stunt at Central."

"Let me out," Castiel demanded, fear building up in his chest. If Dean was in trouble, he would be two hundred meters away, nothing on the scale of the earth, and unable to do anything. He did not trust him in the same facility with Michael or Meg.

"Sorry, but there's nothing I can do about this one," Zachariah shrugged.

"You said you could help us!" Castiel shouted, throwing himself against the edges of the trap, only to be held back by nothing.

"I can, but only to a certain extent." The vessel reached into his robe pockets and produced an aluminum canister with a red cap. "Catch."

Castiel snatched the can from the air and read the label. Spray paint.

"Draw yourself some wards. Who knows what they'll try now. Angels can't get in here without getting stuck themselves, but your garden variety demon can still waltz right in." Zachariah paraded two fingers through the air, but never actually reached into the room.

"And Meg?" Castiel inspected the instructions on the back of the spray can.

"Michael has asked me to stay here in case she tries something a little too," Zachariah pursed his lips, "Zealous."

"There are no wards that would affect her?" Castiel gave the can a few shakes and popped the plastic cap off the top.

"No idea. Just put them all up. Maybe you can snag a part of what's in her."

"In her?" Castiel gave the nozzle a light press and quickly released it when the paint sputtered out in a wild array of splatters, splattering his hand with red spots.

"Part of her. Meg is a true abomination, to angels and demons and humans. And I gotta tell you, that is a difficult feat. She's a little bit of everything, or was. She's lost the only bit that her father really cares about."

"How?" Castiel asked. After seeing the yellow-eyed demons and a wingless Zachariah, he was beginning to accept the existence practically anything. An amalgamation of human, demon, and angel still sounded unlikely, but when presented with the empty hollow that was Meg, he could not think of any better explanation.

"They don't tell me everything," Zachariah admitted, looking a little put out.

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I don't see this ending well for any of us," the vessel sighed, running a wrinkled hand over his smooth scalp. "And when one of them wins, and one of them will always win, not you, not your hunter, one of them. When one of them wins, you'll be a tool, a warhead, and I don't want you pointed blindly in the wrong direction."

The weary slump of Zachariah's shoulder was more convincing than any of his words. They spoke of defeat, of resignation to a fate larger than any of them. They spoke of certainty in doubt, and even without wings, he held a sense of grace.

Castiel painted the first wards with thick, steady strokes. He didn't stop with the standard devil traps. He slipped into a sort of trance, going through his mental archive of banishing sigils and protective wards learned from a textbook of symbology when he was sixteen. By the time he finished, the black lines of the angel trap were barely recognizable beneath the stark red of his warding.

Zachariah had closed the door again, leaving him in the box by himself once again. He went to his coat first, digging frantically through his pockets. He didn't expect that they'd have left him his phone, but his wallet was gone as well. He damned the demon not for the first time, taking a deep breath through clenched teeth. The medical satchel was his next target as he raided its contents. It held several more rolls of bandages, another tiny suture kit, clean clothes, and finally a small pair of scissors barely longer than his thumb. But it was metallic and sharp and was immediately set to scrapping away the black lines on the floors. After cutting through the first mark, Castiel spread his wings, still stiff and uncomfortable, and slipped into the aether. The moment of triumph was cut short as something solid slammed into his shoulder and he fell into the corner of the room. The wards were in duplicate, at least, running in parallel to each other to account for breaks in the other.

Half a dozen more broken lines later, Castiel finally accepted the tightly wound trap that had been laid around him. A wave of exhaustion ran through his as he slammed into the ceiling for the umpteenth time and he dragged himself back to the cot, falling asleep almost immediately.

When he awoke, he was still alone. In his attempt to break the angel trap, he had managed to destroy much of his own warding as well, so he picked the spray can, nearly empty by this point, and went back over the careful sigils that he'd cut through.

He was placing the final line in the back corner of the room when he heard an unfamiliar nasally voice chuckling from the doorway.

"Well well, you've been busy." Castiel was almost relieved that the speaker roiled with darkness instead of the stark emptiness of Zachariah and Meg.

"Alistair," Zachariah said with no inflection from just behind the demon, one shoulder jutted between him and the door, "What are you doing here?"

"Don't get your feathers in a ruffle, oh wait, you can't," the demon, Alistair giggled. "Michael sent me. The hunter is, well, less tractable than we'd hoped, so we're hoping to give him a little incentive to cooperate."

The vessel frowned and pulled a phone from his robe pocket. He hit a single button before pressing the cell to his ear, presumably calling for confirmation. Castiel held his breath, and frantically searched for Dean. The hunter was alive, but he couldn't tell if he were distressed or in pain. He could pick up anything. He glared uselessly at the black lines of the Angel Trap peaking through the red. Zachariah gave a chilly nod before Alistair mockingly bowed and walked into the room.

"Let's go see your little charge," Alistair grinned, holding out his hand.

"I can not leave. You must break the Trap," Castiel said lowly, pulling away from the proffered palm.

"That's not how this works," Alistair chuckled. "The only way you're going anywhere is by Demon Delivery. And if you need an extra push, every second you're late means another second where Dean is alone with the Dynamic Duo. Michael is too full of himself to get his hands dirty but Lucifer, well," the demon licked his teeth. "Let's just say he likes to play with his food."

Castiel blanched and grabbed the demon's wrist. "Let's go."

"I thought you'd see it my way," Alistair grinned. There was a moment where nothing happened, but then Alistair's essence rolled off his back in dark waves, billowing out and forward until it surrounded the both of them. The last thing he saw was the shining white teeth of the demon's crooked grin before he was yanked into the abyss.


	29. Until You Stop and See the Light

_Author's Note: Brief warning that there is torture in this chapter if that's not something you want to see._

The Marigold Room only vaguely resembled the Petunia Room. It was a hell of a lot bigger, over twice as long and wide and an entire wall was covered with closets, drawers, and counters, all faced in a horrifying shade of washed-out red, like blood that'd already set before you tossed your shirt into the bucket to soak. He wondered if his own blood would stain the white tiles the same color.

And he was sure that there was going to be blood. When they'd moved rooms, he'd expected that Alistair would have to unstrap him from the chair, give him an opening, no matter how small, to escape. But the demon had just picked up the entire thing, chair, stand, and Hunter, and swept them away into the end of the gigantic room. The blood wall was to his left, the door just beyond that. Right before he plunked horizontal once again, he caught a glimpse of a row of chairs on the opposite wall, like they were expecting an audience. Dean couldn't be sure if that was what made him sweat or if the room was just hotter.

Flat on his back, all he could see was the ceiling, and he was surprised to find the stark white broken up by spidery black lines, almost like a demon trap, but never one he'd seen before. And the thing was huge, exploding out of the edges in starbursts of glyphs and sigils, crawling out to the very edges of his vision. Kind of creepy, really.

"Well, it looks like you're all set up here. I'm just gonna go check up on some of my projects," the voice Dean had learned to associate with Lucifer called out from somewhere in the corner where the door was. It was weird that this place even had doors. The angels and the yellow-eyed demons just seemed to zip in and out wherever the hell they wanted.

"You will remain here," Michael commanded, voice echoing slightly in the giant room, resonating with the low rumble of the vents.

"Please, Michael. I have things to do. I'm in the middle of a very important project. I won't go near Cassie, I swear. You'd know if I did anyways."

"What project?" Dean could practically hear the narrowed eyes. He tried to focus on the two arguing angels even as Alistair trailed a finger over his arm, stopping occasionally to pinch his skin.

"It's just a follow-up to the Lilith project," Lucifer said, words even and calm to the point where it could be nothing but a cover for excitement.

"You didn't-"

"No," Lucifer complained. "You said to stay away from them so I'm staying away from them. Now can I go play?"

Dean shivered at his words.

"If you stay, you may help me with Mr. Winchester."

"But humans are boring."

Alistair's hand clenched suddenly where they'd trailed their way up to his shoulders.

"Nevertheless, you will remain with me while they are here," Michael said firmly.

There was a moment of silence before the strangely incongruent sound of a raspberry being blown cut across the tension. "Spoilsport," Lucifer whined, but the slipslide of metal chair legs on tile screeched its way through Dean's eardrums.

"Alistair," Michael called to the demon still circling Dean like a hungry shark. "Please make Mr Winchester more comfortable. I wish to speak with him."

A crank of a lever and the back of the chair flipped upright, sending dark stars through Dean's vision at the sudden rush of blood from his head. It took Dean a moment to realize he wasn't seeing double, and that the two angels in front of him were separate beings. Michael, sitting in the center of the room, white wings carefully relaxed, held just off the floor, knees stuck together. And that had to be Lucifer, slumped lazily, fingers and wings trailing over the tiles. Both of them had blinding white wings, though Lucifer's were tattered and messy, sandy blond hair, light blue eyes. While Michael wore the dark blue uniform of the HAS, Lucifer was in a rumpled navy shirt, just a few shades darker than his jeans, light cotton fray ringing the hem. They could have been brothers.

"Hello, Dean," Michael said, like they were having a conversation and one of them wasn't bound and gagged. "I believe we got off on the wrong foot." His smile didn't reach his eyes.

Dean snorted, hoping it conveyed his sentiment of_ So that's seriously what you're going with?_

"And I realize that you be wholly innocent in this, but you must understand that precautions had to be taken. I was trying to avoid the current situation, but it seems fate has converged at this point. Lucifer, would you like to remove the tape over Dean's mouth?"

The other angel shot Michael a dirty look, but swayed up from the chair to saunter over on his heels, hands shoved deep in his pockets. A single blunt fingernail dug into Dean's cheek.

"On three now," Lucifer sang with a wide grin. "One. Two."

Dean braced himself for the burn.

"Three."

Nothing happened. Lucifer was checking the nails on his other hand. _What the hell?_ he mumbled, and as soon as the words left his mouth, the angel yanked hard, tape ripping a strangled yelp from the Hunter.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean hand automatically went up to rub at his face, but the metal clamps kept his wrists locked tight so all he could do was swivel his jaw, stretching the tender skin.

"Thank you," Michael said curtly and Lucifer sauntered back to the wall of chairs, slapping the strip of duct tape onto Michael's shoulder as he passed. The Director ignored it completely.

There was probably a diplomatic way out of this situation, a way to get Michael to let him go without a fight. It would take carefully picked words and subtle phrasing. What came out of Dean's mouth instead was "What the fuck do you want?"

Michael regarded Dean coolly and reached inside his uniform jacket to pull out a single white feather nearly the length of his arm. Lucifer's eyebrows popped up when Michael held it up to the light.

"Do you know what this is?"

"A big-ass feather?" Dean guessed.

"We found this in Castiel's possession. And yes, this is a feather, unusually large compared to the common avian, but a standard size for an angel's secondary coverts. What makes this feather unique, however, is its coloring."

Dean had no idea why he'd been kidnapped to talk about feathers. Maybe they were all just insane. He really had to find where that bitch took Cas and get them the hell out of here before Plan B kicked in. When he didn't respond Michael leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, feather twirling between his fingers.

"There are only two angels in the world with feathers like this," Michael told him.

That got Dean's attention, but only because of how badly the statement failed to impress. "It's white, dude. Hate to break it to you, but lots of angels have white wings."

"White, maybe, but not pure white. Take a closer look. There are no color variations, no streaking, no staining."

"Yea, you're right. Looks like it's made of plastic," Dean admitted.

"It is not artificial," Michael snapped. "It is perfection handed down directly from our Father's hand."

"Sure," Dean agreed and would have moved his eyebrows if they weren't covered in tape.

The angel took a calming breath and bland indifference returned to his face. "There are only two angels in creation with wings this pure. Lucifer and myself. I have not lost any feathers recently, and the ones I have are all accounted for."

"Seriously? You know where every feather you've ever lost is?"

"You are mistaking angels for common fowl, Dean. Angels do not shed."

Dean snickered, then thought better of it when both angels looked a few seconds short of kicking his ass.

"Ok, fine, so what's the big deal? Cas had one of Luc's feathers. Sorry, man," he turned to the angel in question, "I get that you're not a giant chicken but your wings look like they're dropping feathers all over the place."

"The problem," Michael said, like Dean was a particularly troubled kid who didn't know what was going on because he was always doing something else in class. Dean was pretty well acquainted with the tone. "Is that Lucifer never leaves this facility."

"So the guy got cabin fever and took a trip, not some big mystery here, Mike," Dean scoffed.

"I would know," Michael retorted sharply, not quite losing his cool. "But that is not what I am asking. Has Castiel mentioned this to you or spoken of how he received it?"

"No," Dean said slowly. "What the hell is the big deal anyways? So Cas has his feather. What's he going to do? Sell it to one if those new-age hippies for a couple hundred bucks?"

"The big deal, as you say, is what the feather implies. That feather is a threat, the only question now is whether that threat has already been made or if it never had the chance."

"Hold up. You're saying that someone is threatening Cas with a feather?"

"Or," Michael said firmly, "Castiel is threatening us."

"Bullshit! Even after all this crap you pulled, he still practically worships the shit falling from your ass."

"You have only known Castiel for a very short time. How well do you actually know him? How do you know you can trust anything he says?" Michael asked, sitting back stiffly on his stool.

"I trust him a hell of a lot more than I trust you," Dean spat out. He didn't need reasons. Michael made every hair on the back of his neck stand up like they were trying to escape. Cas could fling Dean halfway across the world without triggering any red flags, like they had known each other for years even though he could barely tell you a dozen things about the guy.

"I see," Michael sighed, standing up fluidly from the chair, white wings utterly still behind him. "I believe that you have no knowledge or bearing in this issue." He tucked the feather gingerly back inside his jacket and picked up his chair, moving it back into the row.

"That's it? That's all this has been about? A feather?" Dean demanded, not believing for a second that a feather was what got them locked up, what made them into fugitives.

"Of course not," Michael said offhandedly as he held the phone up to his ear. "Yes, Alistair, please return."

Dean bit back a curse when a moment later the demon burst into the room a foot from his head, humming the alphabet. He grunted as the back of the chair fell down once again.

"Now that your loyalty has been ascertained, we can proceed." Michael moved to stand by the opposite wall where Dean could barely see the tips of his wings.

"Fuck you, my loyalty ain't touching you with a ten foot pole."

"Not to me, Dean. Loyalty to the people you have sworn to protect. This matter extends farther than just you and me. At the end of this, you will be a hero. Your name will be remembered for countless millennia. Your face will be recognized by every man, woman, and child. You will be have more influence than the pope."

"More famous than Jesus?" Dean sneered, trying to follow the demon with his eyes as it circled his chair, still humming, providing the weirdest soundtrack to Michael's big speech.

"Yes, Dean. You understand, then, what it is we have to do now?"

He had a pretty good idea what Michael wanted to happen. He also had a pretty good idea that he wasn't about to enjoy the process. The only thing he could think to do was stall, stall until something changed.

"No clue, dude. I'm like the red crayon of that kid in kindergarten who was obsessed with strawberries. Kind of dull, you know?"

"I very much doubt that," Michael's voice floated across the room, vibrating strangely with the muffled rattle of the vents and Alistair's breathy hums. "But if you insist. Your bond holds endless potential, and yet you have done nothing to tap into that potential."

"Believe me," Dean joked, forcing a strained laugh from his lungs. "If I could access some sort of super powers right now I really would."

"No," Michael said, wings twitching in the corner of his eye. "You wouldn't. But Alistair is here to provide some extra motivation. If you will?"

"My pleasure," Alistair hissed.

Dean clenched his jaw and tried to remember what they had gone through in basic training.

Don't antagonize your captors, that lead to being singled out.

Well that one was a bust. He was pretty sure he had all of Alistair's attention from the first sniff.

"You see, Dean," Michael started, his voice a persistent drone just louder than the vents. "The world is descending into chaos. Militia groups erupting in Cuba, pagan cults blooming like weeds across the Eastern block."

The torture stopped when the captors heard what they wanted to hear, not when they heard the truth.

Dean would lie his ass off if that was all it took, but what Michael wanted here was for him to do something that Dean could just come out and say or do. It wasn't even something he could fake his way through.

Alistair scraped a yellowed fingernail under the edge of the tape over his eyebrow, leaning so close that Dean could feel the wet breath on his cheek.

"Good boy," Alistair cooed and with a sharp jerk of his wrist, took Dean's eyebrow from his face.

Exaggerate the pain.

The hunter jerked and shouted, adding a little moan into the mix.

Accept the situation.

Alistair grabbed of tape in his hairlines and yanked, and this time Dean yelled for real. The dangling strip held not just sandy blond hair, but a few chunks of bloody skin that made Dean want to gag.

Stay calm.

The rest of the tape came off in sharp succession and Dean stopped thinking about training. He stopped thinking about anything past the burning streaks across his scalp and face and focusing on breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. When the final piece was held, bloody and chunky over his face, Dean forced a smirk and gritted out, "That all you got?"

Alistair's grin grew bigger, like it could split the bottom half of his face right in two. "Oh, that was just me having a little fun, an appetizer if you will." The demon tossed the tape to one side and pulled out a pair of pliers, snapping them together a few times before leaning down to breath into Dean's ear. "Are you ready for the main course?"

His fingernails went first.

"Doubt," Michael snapped in time with the pliers. "Angels and demons aren't enough proof anymore."

His pinky first.

"Doubt leading to dissension."

His ring finger.

"Dissension to anarchy."

His middle finger.

"Anarchy to death."

Forefinger.

"Destruction of everything we've managed to build in the last two thousand years."

Thumb. Dean's groan drowned out whatever it was Michael was ranting about now.

His toenails went next. And everything was okay. He could take this. He'd run a mile on a broken ankle once. This was nothing.

"The people need a champion, Dean. They need miracles that the angels can not provide. They need you and they will come like ants to a fallen fruit. You will be the one to save them."

"You know, if you can get it up," Lucifer spoke up for the first time since Alistair returned.

"You will," Michael insisted.

He started crying about the time the pliers were fastened around his molar. The metal trap kept his head still, even though the pressure built higher and higher, like successive strikes of lightning. It squeezed tears from his eyes before the tooth cracked and Dean screamed.

When Alistair started on the second molar, trying to find purchase around the blood that filled Dean's mouth, Michael cut in. "He can't lose that much blood."

A vacuum was stuck in Dean' mouth, making obscene slurping sounds as the blood gurgled down its throat. A wad of bitter gauze was jammed into the hole where his tooth had once been, a mocking echo of the pain and the loss.

"We have time," Alistair crooned and the chair dropped away from under Dean. His head jerked back against the rest, making him bite his tongue. He barely past the ache of his jaw.

After a while he sank into the pain. Alistair stayed away from things that made him bleed, but there were just as many ways to make a man scream without breaking the skin. Even if he stopped screaming after it started getting him lungfuls of water that produced a new kind of burn from the inside out.

"Stop." The word didn't make any sense. Pain didn't stop. It just was. "He's not even trying."

Dean braced himself for the next blow against the soles of his feet, but it didn't come.

"Just give me more time," Alistair huffed.

"No, you'll kill him before you get him to reach for the Bond. He has been surviving pain too long without it. But there are other things we can try. Go get the angel."

"Cassie?" Lucifer asked, finally perking up from where he'd been slumped in his chair the entire time, as if Dean's miniature hell was just annoying background noise to the symphony he'd been drumming onto the plastic seats.

"Not for you," Michael said, amusement glinting in his eyes. Dean wanted to claw them out.

Fucking angels, he cursed, words slurred even in his own head. His face was too swollen for him to say anything out-loud. The chair suddenly tilted down and his head swam with the sudden loss of blood. He blinked away the dark edges and peered around the room. Alistair was already gone. Michael wasn't looking at him, instead peering at something on his phone. The only eyes on him belonged to Lucifer. He stared groggily back, not trying to be defiant or pleading or much of anything other than conscious.

Lucifer smiled slightly, propping his chin on the heel of his palm. "This could be fun."

Dean sucked in a breath a little too hard and his throat clenched up before he was coughing in fits, each jerk sending pain radiating through his head and down his ribs.

The sharp triple beep of Michael's phone cut through his own wheezing.

"Yes, I sent Alistair. You may retire. Thank you, Zachariah."

Fucking angels, Dean thought again, sharper this time, even as he felt himself slide away.

A sharp jerk to his wrist woke him up, then sudden gut-wrenching disorientation before he landed on the ground with a sharp oomph and someone yelling wordlessly next to his ear. Warm arms were locked around his back and a familiar gray covered everything else.

"Cas?" he gurgled out before remembering he couldn't talk.

"Get the collar on him," Michael voice ordered and sharp fingers pried Dean up and over, jamming him against the wall.

They were sprawled a couple yards from the chair, Castiel gasping on his back, their legs still tangled together from when they'd fallen. Alistair clapped a silver collar around the angel's neck, covered in scratchy black glyphs. The angel's wings spasmed once before falling still on the ground, but there was only a minute before the demon was hauling the angel to his feet.

That's when Dean noticed the mass of white gauze and bandages wound up the angel's side, spots of red poking through in a line like splattered paint. The tacky flex of his own fingers, covered now in the same blood made his stomach turn.

Alistair dropped Cas with a careless thud to the ground near the center of the room before coming back for Dean. The hunter could barely stand, the soles of his feet still tender from the beating, but he kicked out wildly at the demon as he was half-carried back to the chair.

"What is this?" Castiel's deep rasp accused from where he'd struggled onto his knees, fingers of one hand hooked under the collar's edge.

"Just keeping you grounded, angel," Alistair growled, slamming the cuffs back down around Dean's wrists. He didn't bother with the rest of the straps this time, which was just another clue that something was about to go horribly wrong.

"Cas, you okay?" Dean slurred out, blood and saliva dribbling out of the side of his lips. The gauze in his mouth was little better than mush by then.

"Oh, he's fine right now," the demon purred. "Just feeling a little bogged down by life's little distractions."

Alistair slid across the floor, slipping in close enough to the angel that Cas stumbled back a step before the demon caught a finger beneath the collar. Anger boiled up in Dean as the demon gave jerked on the metal ring, snapping the angel's head to one side.

"Stop this," Castiel gasped, grabbing the demon's wrist. "Michael, you must see that this isn't the right course."

The other angel didn't say anything. The dick barely looked at Castiel, just kept tapping away at his phone and occasionally glancing up at Dean or Alistair. Lucifer couldn't seem to decide whether he liked gloating at the hunter more or at the angel, look of triumph glinting in his beady eyes.

"Interesting fact," Alistair hummed. "It takes the average human six weeks to heal a simple fracture of the bone. The average angel's arm won't even break." He laughed. "But Castiel here isn't exactly your average angel is he?" Suddenly he grabbed the angel's forearm and kicked out his knees, twisting the limb behind his back with a sickening crack.

"No!" Dean yelled, lunging forward against his restraints, nearly yanking his arms out of their sockets. His words were loud but garbled. "He's not your stupid prophet, okay? I am! You can't get anything from him! Fuck, Cas," he cursed, willing the angel to open his eyes. He was about to ask if he was okay, but he could guess from the unnatural sheen of sweat on his pale face. All that he could hear was the pained wheezing of breath as it whistled through his guardian's nostrils.

"Without the warding, it'd take him, oh, three days? But now, well, how does it feel to be human, angel?" Alistair let go of the angel's wrist and Castiel cried out as his arm swung down to hit the ground. He only had a moment to cradle his arm before a sharp kick came down on his side.

"Stop it! Stop!" Dean snarled, feeling sluggish senses sharpened by fury. "I'll do it, okay! I'll use the stupid bond!" And he tried, eyes locking on Castiel's. They were open now, wide and blue and blank.

"No," Castiel choked out. "I'm still an angel. This won't kill m-" His words cut off with a cry as heavy boot came down on his left knee.

"Fuck!" Dean shook in his binds, desperately trying to slip his hands out of the cuffs, scraping a raw line of red across his wrists. His thumbs. He had to get his thumbs out. And then he could give that son of a bitch demon what was coming to him.

And Michael too. All of them. Sick twisted bastards. Shit.

A heel dug itself into the bandaging and Castiel keened, voice shriveling up into little more than a breathy moan. Dean couldn't breath. He felt like he was stuck on the edge of a yawning abyss, frigid air pouring down his neck, frozen.

"Don't," Castiel whispered.

"You can make it stop," Michael soothed. "You can make it all stop."

"Don't," Castiel hissed again before an arm was wrapped around his neck, crushing his windpipe. His eyes rolled shut.

Dean didn't even know what either of them was asking anymore. All he knew was that Michael was right. This was worse than Alistair ripping out his tooth, like all the pain from Castiel was being flooded right into Dean's chest, stalling his lungs and painting his throat with bile.

The crack of a fist across the angel's nose. The snap of his wrist, so that both arms hung awkwardly in that tentative balance between keeping them still and keeping the weight off the broken joints.

Don't. Castiel's voice echoed in his head. And Dean did nothing. He could do nothing. He was absolutely useless, even as Alistair produced the scalpel and rammed it into Castiel's eye. He did nothing as an angry red cross was carved across the angel's back.

He wanted to scream, to cry, to rip through the chair and wring the necks of everyone else in that room, but he could barely breath, much less move.

The sharp trill of the triple beep left claw marks across his mind. Beep beep beep. Again and again until he realized it was an alarm of some sort. Alistair was gone again. But this time Michael and Lucifer had disappeared as well.

"Cas," he choked and didn't recognize the rough scrape that was his own voice. The angel didn't move, just lay sprawled across the floor, blood pooling from his back and face and soaking into the gray feathers, staining them black. "Oh god, Cas!" He tasted salt on his tongue.

The collar glinted mockingly under the artificial lights.

Dean registered numbly the state of his own hands, nail beds clotted black and lumpy, skin nearly completely scraped off the heel of his palm. Still he had trouble prying his fingers off the arm rest, slowly unfolding each one until he could twist his arms, palms face up and open in supplication.

"Please," Dean pleaded to no one in particular. "Please."

The angel whimpered.

"Cas? I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he chanted until it was a sort of breathy mantra. He was past the point of desperation, of exhaustion. They had bled him dry, wrung him out until was was hollow, an aching hole that clenched periodically to the throb of his heart. He was so focused on Cas, on watching the faint rise and fall of his chest just to make sure he was still alive, that you really couldn't kill an angel without holy oil, that he didn't register the fact that Michael and Alistair had returned until a familiar grunt locked every muscle in his body.

"Angels," Alistair wheezed, laughing. "They last longer, but it's not as much fun when there's no real danger. But humans, oh humans, they are so soft, so sensitive, so deliciously mortal."

Dean's head snapped up in horror to see Alistair wrapped firmly around his brother, flipping Dean across the abyss and into the fire. Every fiber of Dean burned as his eyes met Sam's.

"And this one," Alistair chuckled darkly, "I don't have to be careful with this one."


	30. Beyond the Dock

_Author's Notes: Sorry for missing the update last week but it's the last couple weeks of classes and everything is due - But I managed to finish it for this week! And when finals are over, maybe I can up the update schedule and get this story finished within the next ten years. Thanks for being patient!_

Chapter Thirty

Castiel had been to the moon once, as a sort of test that while nothing else was right, his wings still worked. Space was a vacuum. No sound, no smell, no taste. Light was a distant echo. Touch, though. Feeling was the immediate cold that seeped into the skin and through the muscle right down into the bone.

He felt the heavy weight on his collar, dragging him down. Gravity crushing from above. And he was so very cold.

And the scream. It wasn't something he could hear. It was something that vibrated deep down inside him, not inside his skeleton, but beneath it, shivering through his Grace. Dean's scream.

It was too loud, so loud that it had to be hurting the man as much as it tore at the angel, to be screaming like that, to be throwing his very soul through a shredder. He had to stop him.

His one eye struggled to focus. The sounds were distorted, and even the press of tile under his stomach felt wrong, but it was his vision that mattered then.

There was blood everywhere, mottled browns that had been splattered hours ago and left to dry. Bright reds just recently spilled. It was impossible to tell whose blood it was anymore. His own clogged the floor around him, congealing in his hair and on his skin.

Sam screamed as well, guttural, grating, compressed air beating against his ear drums. It wasn't nearly as loud.

Alistair pressed the knife forward, slicing through another inch of cartilage, carving into the side of Sam's head, other hand fisted in his hair.

Dean was screaming again, sending shards of pain down Castiel's wings and right into his very core, leaving him gasping for air he did not need, tearing apart the clotted seams of flesh along his back.

The ear landed on the ground with a wet plop and the smell of burnt flesh filled the air.

The screaming grew louder. Dean was going to tear his soul into pieces, trying to control the shard of Grace within him without opening himself first to the bond. He was clenched so tight.

"Stop, Dean. Don't," he croaked, but he could barely hear his own words.

Alistair splashed something liquid over Sam's hand, jerking the large, bloody man upward by his wrist. He held something in his other hand, something small that Castiel could not see, but Dean seemed to recognize it, because the screaming intensified again. He didn't know how much more the Hunter could take.

Alistair flicked his thumb and a small blue-orange flame leaped from the metal lip. A lighter. And suddenly he could see what would happen. Sam's hand covered in gasoline. Alistair's fingers unwrapping, one by one, until the fire was held aloft by only the tips of his forefinger and thumb. And then not even those.

The bones in his broken wrist twisting together as his fingers clawed limply at the collar at his throat.

The lighter fell an inch, two, and Dean was furious. He couldn't know what he was doing. Neither could Michael or Alistair. Castiel was the only one who could feel their intertwined Grace and soul coming apart, and he blindly lashed out with what remaining strength he had, pushing back through the bond, trying to hold the pieces together.

It burned. Whereas Dean's soul coming through the bond had been like water falling off a cliff, his Grace moving in the opposite direction was like forcing that water back up. Every strand he through across to the Hunter made him weaker, made the world a little dimmer. Made him a little more empty.

Like Meg.

Dean needed his wings, he realized with a start. It would be the only way to contain him, to contain the Grace and the soul together without destroying both. He pushed harder, now, not sending wisps, but the entirety of his self. Angels were their wings. His mind fought back the image of Zachariah, haggard and bare-backed.

Sam's hand burst into flames.

Someone was screaming, but Castiel didn't know who anymore. It could have been himself, but any physical agony was nothing in the face of losing his wings.

And suddenly the world went white.

He had always imagined oblivion to be darkness, devoid of all light, but light was all there was, blinding in its intensity. His eye stung, and a tear dribbled down the edge of his nose..

Shadows slowly insinuated themselves back into the world, the curved tip of a nose, full lips, short matted hair: Dean, glowing like a golden beacon, the color of his soul pouring from beneath his skin. And then gray wings, edged in gold light, a beautiful and surreal spread beyond the hunter's back.

There was more screaming now, a moan, a quiet gasp. And suddenly sensation snapped back into place. He choked on his own breath, forcing air through his teeth. Father in heaven, his eye throbbed, searing like the very sun as the muscles still moved to clench around what was no longer there. And his back, ripping apart with each breath, broken ribs justled with every movement. He couldn't curl up, not without moving his broken arms and his crushed toes and the gaping hole in his side.

He trembled then, unable to stop, even though each shiver sent agony throughout his entire person. For the first time he felt how terrifying the cold could be, like a living creature, consuming inch after inch of flesh and skin. It must have worked then. He could never have felt this cold before. And his back was so empty. Everything was.

A golden glow fought through even as darkness engulfed his vision. He tried to remember which sensation was the shock setting in, the cold or the warmth. Not that human biology would necessarily apply to him now. Either way, he hoped he would not have disappointed his Father too much by losing his wings.

"Castiel," a hoarse voice called, a large warm hand laying over his arm. "Castiel, please."

Castiel wanted to tell whoever it was not to touch his arm, that it was broken, but when he cautiously shrugged his shoulder, there was no pain.

"Please, Castiel. Dean's not breathing."

Both his eyes snapped open only to clench tight against the bright fluorescent lights. Shielding his face with a strangely unbroken arm, he squinted up at the large man hovering over him.

"Sam?"

"Yea, yea, it's Sam," the man babbled, running a shaky hand through blood-matted hair. "Can you move? It's Dean, I don't know what's going on."

Castiel rolled onto his side, feeling the sticky half-dried blood under his palms as he lifted himself up. When he tried to stand, the ground tilted suddenly to one side before large hands grabbed his shoulder, keeping him upright.

"What happened?" he croaked, shuffling over to the other body in the room. Dean looked peaceful, muscles of his face unclenched, leaving smoothed brow and lax lips. His arms were splayed out in front of him, as if he'd been holding them up before he fell. His legs were a tangle, bare feet unblemished but for a few speckles of red. And behind him, covering the floor and flipping up against the wall, were wings. His wings.

Sam never took his eyes off the gray feathers, but Castiel had spent twenty years seeing them just past his arms, so it was only a moment before his eyes travelled back to the Hunter.

"He's not breathing," Sam said again, bending down so that the both of them sat on the gummy ground in front of Dean.

"He doesn't need to," Castiel reassured the man, stretching a hand out to touch freckled cheeks. Dean's skin was cool, but only compared to his own palm. Perhaps Castiel had a fever. It was a plausible side effect of his sudden transition into - he swallowed past the lump that had somehow formed in his throat - something empty. A part of him remembered the carved out shells that were Meg and Zachariah. He couldn't sense that in himself, though he couldn't sense much of anything anymore.

It had been so cold before, a body going to shock, perhaps. But something had happened. The gash up his side had closed into an ugly scar, Meg's stitches embedded under newly formed skin. His eye was back, though the vision a little blurry. White lumps of malformed flesh crawled up his leg where Alistair had dug out entire fistfuls of muscle, but his steps were strong, if uneven. He glanced to the side, staring at the malformed ridge jutting out of the side of Sam's head. These were not miracles.

His fingers brushed down to Dean's jugular, feeling for a pulse. It fluttered weakly against the pad of his forefinger. The Hunter's body had not yet forgotten everything that made it human.

"He's going to be okay?" Sam's large hands brushed by Castiel's, smoothing over his brother's face, feeling for himself the unbroken skin beneath the crusted blood.

"Yes." In his final seconds as an angel, Castiel had felt the shell close in around Dean's soul. It hadn't been a true union. He had seen the barrier then, that indefinable space that separated grace from soul, but that had not mattered as long as they simply survived.

Sam's head snapped up and a second later Castiel heard what must have snatched his attention. Another guttural scream forced its way through the steel doors. "You didn't come alone," he said, frustrated that he had not thought of it before. Of course he could not have found them by himself.

Sam shook his head, face paling further under the streaked red-brown painting his cheeks. "No. There were seven of us, couple hunters, couple angels, Kali - but as soon as we got here the demons started pouring out of the rooms. There were hundreds of them," he hissed, eyes never leaving the doorway even as his grip tightened on his brother's shoulder. "Then those two angels came with that other guy. He was a demon wasn't he? He grabbed me and everyone was still fighting but I don't know-" His words choked off at another shriek from outside.

Castiel pushed himself off the ground and managed to stumble his way over to the cabinets. He pulled open the largest door and gulped at what he saw inside. Drills with bits as thick as his thumb, a paddle covered in two-inch nails, and large metal clamps filled his vision and he fought back a wave of nausea, trying to rip his eyes past the unused instruments to find what he knew had to be in here. There, at the bottom, leaning against the wall was a large bag of rock salt. Alistair had rubbed a handful into his back at one point. He tugged at a corner, but his hands slipped right off the plastic.

"Sam," he called, leaning against the edge of the cabinet, face inches from a chain covered in thin metal slivers. "Take this. Help them."

"I can't leave!" Sam protested, one hand still on his brother's shoulder, fingertips hovering inches from the base of the limp wings. "Not without Dean."

"Dean can't leave," he answered sharply, glaring at the scrawl of glyphs across the ceiling. "That's an angel trap."

"What? But there's no such- and Dean's not- is he? I don't-"

"Sam!" Castiel snapped. "You need to get Kali. She is the only one who can get him out. I can't- You have to find them. I will try to ward the room, in case any demons try anything."

"But-"

"If you don't get Kali, he'll be trapped here," Castiel interrupted. He started pulling open the other drawers, revealing all manner of objects whose only function could be to cause pain, but Alistair had not just been sadistic, he had been unhinged in a way that seemed to unsettle even Michael. And that meant that there may be something actually useful here, common objects put to uncommon uses.

He pulled an iron file from a drawer and handed it to Sam who already had the rock salt in his arms.

"Go!" Castiel commanded when Sam's eyes drifted back to the hunter on the floor. A minute later, the door swung closed behind him with a definitive click and Castiel continued searching the bright pink wall. When he crouched down, he noticed how exhausting even these minimal motions had become and only desperation drove his limbs forward. His search was rewarded at the bottom of the second column when he pulled out a half-empty spray can.

He didn't bother warding the entire room this time, nor did he ward as extensively. Dean was safe now. His wounds were gone and when Castiel stood, he could see two sets of sooty black wing-marks on the ground. One was nebulous, an inkblot test in red and black that Castiel could only assume was Alistair. The other was sharp, crisp lines that outlined long feathers folded in on top of each other. He refused to look at that one after his first glimpse.

There was only one clear explanation. The Hunter had done that, had destroyed an angel and a demon. He was far more dangerous now than anything else that could exist in this complex, even Meg.

The Hunter's eyes blinked open as Castiel pushed one wing within the boundary of the freshly drawn demon trap.

"What's going on?" Dean slurred, pushing himself up on his hands and knees. His head snapped up and he nearly collapsed back to his stomach, though his shaky arms held him up. "Sam!"

"He's safe," Castiel reassured him quickly, pushing against one shoulder until Dean sagged back to the ground. "He went to- get help."

"Those bastards," Dean grunted, eyes closing as he curled up on his side.

"They're gone. Rest."

Castiel tossed the empty canister across the room, not caring when it missed the garbage bin by over a meter. The wall was warm against his back as he slid down next to Dean, his knees brushing against the gray feathers that spread gently across the floor. They were soft, softer than when they had been his. There was a pang of longing, as Dean shifted, causing one wing to cover his leg, but it wasn't backed by any regret. He could never regret his actions, he realized with a burst of warm satisfaction.

The hum of of the ventilation and the warm air had nearly lulled him into sleep when the loud snap of bronze wings shook him back awake.

"You killed him," Gabriel said dully, staring at the ground near the middle of the room. Castiel stared at the curve of Dean's shoulder where his sleeve had been torn. Darkening blood covered half of the opening, but through the other half, he could see the raised flesh of his scar.

"You weren't supposed to kill him." Heat infused Gabriel's voice as it rose in frenzy. "You were just supposed to break the bond! Why- how- you can't! He's not supposed to be dead!"

"I didn't know," Castiel pleaded. "Did you? Did you know what he was planning? Do you know what is going on here?" It frightened him that Gabriel could have been lying to them the entire time. He searched the angel's face for deception, but found nothing but sorrow in his wrinkled brow and clenched jaw.

"Know what?" Gabriel asked, wings casting dark shadows across the entire room. "If I-" His head snapped to the left wall and his entire body seemed to quiver. "The anchor," he gasped and Castiel glanced over the opened cabinets and drawers, not recalling finding an anchor in there. "The anchor has Rachel." Gabriel's eyes widened and Castiel did not get a chance to ask before he flew off without moving his wings.

Castiel gaped at the space the angel had occupied, stunned by his sudden disappearance. He had never realized how unsettling flight could seem when the viewer could not see the trail of wings as they flew through the aether. Then suddenly his mind processed what Gabriel had said.

"Rachel," he repeated as his chest clenched, threatening to choke off his lungs. He did not know what the Anchor was, but the way Gabriel said the name sent shivers down his spine. Any exhaustion he'd felt before seemed to evaporate into the dry air as he was infused with the urge to run after Gabriel, wherever he had flown.

"Go on," Dean grunted from where he'd propped himself against the wall where Cas had rested moments before. "You have to find her. She's your sister."

"She's not-"

"Cas!"

He looked the Hunter over. His coloring was healthy, better than Sam's, most likely better than his own. "And you-"

"I'm fine," Dean growled and Castiel believed him.

"Okay," he said, taking a shuddering breath. "Stay inside that circle."

Sam had taken the salt, but there were a couple iron spikes hanging in the long closet. He grabbed one and tossed it to Dean before grabbing a second and rushing through the door, driven forward by senseless fear. It clogged all his senses until all he could hear was the thud thud of his own heart.

The Anchor has Rachel. Rachel who had been serious for as long as Castiel could remember though all he could picture in his mind was her smile when he'd graduated. He barely noticed the bodies that lined the hallways. They could have been human or demon, he couldn't tell anymore and he didn't waste his energy mourning them. He nearly collided with the opposite wall as he rounded a corner, still shaky. They felt like new legs even though he'd had them for over two decades.

The first demon careened past him, neither of them expecting the other. Castiel just kept running, realizing belatedly that he had no idea where he was going. The second demon was more alert, black eyes narrowing dangerously as he lept forward. Castiel spun away, just barely avoiding the first rush. The iron spike felt tiny in his hands. He didn't know what he'd been thinking, rushing out like that. He knew without thinking that he was slower and weaker than a demon now, and he felt painfully mortal as the demon whipped around to face him. He placed both hands at the base of the spike, preparing himself for the next attack.

Luck was all that allowed him to parry the first strike, but the next sent him sprawling across the hallway. He was going to be too late getting up, but the knowledge didn't stop him from trying, hands sweaty hands slipping against the tile.

The killing blow never came though. When he turned around, another man, stood over the smoking body on the ground. Castiel realized with a start that he wasn't another man when he blinked at the right angle, clearly flashing the yellow sheen over his irises. Kali appeared a second later, duel blades covered in viscera.

"What happened to you?" she demanded, standing stock still as she looked him over with wide eyes. Another demon ran down the hallway, maybe the one he had passed earlier, and Kali dispatched him with a swipe of her sword, metal flashing red for a second as it passed through its chest.

Castiel scrambled upright, wiping his palms against his remaining leg of his pants before taking the metal spike back in his hand. "Where's Rachel?"

"She and Uriel were trapped near the entrance," Kali answered promptly, returning her gaze to the space just over Castiel's shoulder before drifting to the center of his chest. Castiel drew one hand up protectively over his heart. He was tempted to ask what she saw now, whether he was as hollow as Meg, but his tongue refused to say the words.

"Was there an anchor?"

"I don't know-" Kali snapped away as a dozen demons came around the corner, snarling as they threw themselves to their deaths. She was a dance of blades while the other demon fought with only his hands. Flashes of red preceded the collapse of each demon. There were four left standing when the entire hallway flooded with blue light. Two flashes of blue later, the lights flickered back to cold, impartial white. Two more demons lay dead on the ground, but the remaining two turned their backs to run. They did not get a dozen steps before Kali had descended on them once again.

"They've never run before," she said incredulously, glancing surreptitiously at the lights.

"That must have been some sort of signal," the other demon answered, adjusting the collar of his jacket.

"But who ordered it?" Kali stalked back to them on bare feet.

"Lucifer," Castiel said without a shred of doubt. "Michael is dead." Even though Michael had been the clear commanding presence in that room, he had seemed out of place, like he should have been behind that great oak desk of his in Central instead of inside a mock medical room. The other angel though, had acted like he owned not only that room, but everyone in it. A part of him twisted around the question of their relationship, but right now there were more pressing matters. Whatever their past, Michael was gone now.

"Take me to Rachel," he said, tacking on a "Please" when Kali eyed him warily. It was the other demon that took his arm and jerked him through space. Castiel nearly blacked out during the flight, the friction between dimensions pulling him apart without the buffer of wings, but he was stumbling across solid ground before he completely dissociated.

"Cas!" Sam said, catching his shoulders and hauling him upright. "What are you doing here? Dean-"

"Dean is awake," he assured the younger Winchester. "I have to find Rachel. Gabriel was here and he said that the anchor had her. I don't know what that means but it sounded ominous."

"The ragged angel has her," a deep booming voice said with no inflection. Castiel looked to the center of the room they had stopped inside. A large angel with white and gold wings stood imperiously at the center of another angel trap. Two blonds, a man and a woman, were crouched at the edge, digging into the ground with knives.

The heat felt stifling. "He had white wings, blond hair?"

"Yes." The angel narrowed his eyes, looking over Castiel warily. "You are another abomination," he sneered.

"Shut up, Uriel," the blond girl snapped. "God, stop being such a dick or we're just going to leave you in there."

"Do not use our heavenly father's name in such a base manner, Joanna Harvelle," Uriel boomed, bristling in his impeccably pressed uniform.

"Kali can bring him out," Castiel told them, carefully stepping away from the edge of the trap. He knew he couldn't be trapped, not anymore, but the black lines still made his skin prickle.

"I will not allow that filth to lay a hand on me," Uriel said snidely, wrinkling his nose at them.

The blond man, another hunter by his dress, snorted and stood up, cracking his back with a chain of noisy pops. "I am not spending an hour chipping away at this when Xena the Warrior Princess can just zap you out."

"It was your reckless behavior that led to my imprisonment," the angel said resentfully.

"No," the female hunter said with a roll of her eyes. "That would be my reckless behavior. And I'm with Ash on this one. Suck it up or stay in there for all I care."

Castiel couldn't help the anger that bubbled up within him, unused to the heavy roil of emotion and unable to contain it, he burst out shouting, "It would take you days to unravel the ward. Kali, remove Uriel from the trap. Lucifer has Rachel! We have to find her. The angel that has her, he is dangerous in ways that I can not fully comprehend."

"Cas," Sam snapped, grabbing Castiel by the shoulders, stopping the shaking he hadn't even noticed. "You gotta chill out, man. We'll find her."

"Yes, of course," Castiel muttered, feeling a wave of dizziness wash over him. He blinked his eyes to clear his head, trying to make himself focus. When he was able to discern individual shapes again, Uriel and Kali were standing outside the angel trap, mirroring looks of disgust painted on their faces.

"Did you see where he took her?" Castiel croaked and brought a hand up to his own throat. The words grated like sandpaper against his throat.

"No," Uriel boomed, then reconsidered. "He took her in that direction." He jutted his chin down one of the hallways extending to his left, its length dotted with bodies before turning off to the right. The opposite wall held a large painting depicting a man, body covered only be a scrap of bloody cloth across his hips. Bleeding stigmata marked his identity clearly, but it was not any of the known images of Jesus Christ. It echoed the Pieta, prone figure carried in the lap of another, head bent in sorrow, but instead of Mary, it was a young angel. Behind him, three other angels hovered, white wings intertwined like people intertwined their hands. Their faces were twisted in grief, but their heads of sandy blond hair were eerily familiar. And if Castiel looked clearly, he could make out the shape of a pair wings ash-blasted on the wall behind them all.

"That looks familiar," Kali said, advancing slowly across the room and towards the hallway, eyes locked on the painting. "I think I know where this is. I think I know where the gate is!"

"The Devil Gate?" Joanna asked, flicking off the safety of her gun as she lifted it from her belt.

"Yes. It's this way," the demon answered sharply before gliding away.

The other demon followed swiftly, just a step behind Kali. The rest of them rushed to catch up, though Castiel could barely stand. A dark part of him couldn't stop imagining Rachel standing at the devil's maw, waiting just a moment before falling through the tear. Lucifer had seemed so eager to him torn apart, rubbing his own neck as if he were the one wearing the collar and not Castiel. Vain hope that his was the only one flickered briefly before dying away. The complex was littered with angel traps. The same was probably true of the collars.

Kali and the other demon reached the painting and paused for a second before heading off down the bend. The next length of hall ended in a door, larger than most of the others they'd seen. It swung open easily under the demon's touch and the sound of familiar arguing propelled Castiel forward, sending him stumbling past the demons.

"Where is he?" Meg snarled, one hand fisted in Zachariah's robe as she pinned him high against the wall, his bare feet, dangling limply above the ground.

"I don't know," he cackled, bony fingers wrapped around the wrist that held him aloft.

"Michael brought you everywhere. You have to," she yelled, oblivious to the group that had appeared behind her.

Zachariah must have seen them though, because he laughed even harder. "It's been over for you for a long time, now. You just never bothered to notice."

"Meg!" Castiel shouted when no one else was going to move or intervene. She turned to glare at him with dark eyes. Zachariah dropped to the ground in a heap as Meg took a step towards him, but she paused as she glanced at the assembly of demons, humans, and angel.

Kali moved from beside Castiel, blades glinting in the harsh lighting and in the next moment Meg was gone, flown away to safety. Castiel allowed himself a moment admiration for the fiercely painted demon advancing on Zachariah.

"Don't hurt him. We need him," he said before she could carry out the threat her blades wrought with their very presence. "He knows things about Michael and Lucifer." Castiel swayed to one side and found himself collapsed on the ground. Large hands guided him upright and to a padded table at the center of the room.

He realized with horror that they were inside another operating room. It was massive, the size of an auditorium, and Castiel shuddered to think what it was used for. The windows set high up in the wall gave him some idea, though. The glass separated them from viewing areas fitted with comfortable chairs and side tables, and he could imagine Lucifer grinning with pleasure as some unlucky prey was caught in his clutches. He was suddenly very thankful that they had not found Rachel here in Zachariah's place.

Kali and the demon flung open a second set of doors from the one they'd come in. Searing heat blasted from the doorway, more tunnel than hallway. It was a mencing hole in the wall with no lights save a single red dot somewhere in the distance.

"It is too hot for the humans to proceed," Uriel said solemnly, white-gold wings shaking open to shield his charge from the heat.

"Then we will proceed without them," Kali answered. She stalked into the tunnel without a glance backwards. Uriel was the one to close the doors behind them, leaving the humans with Zachariah. Castiel was too tired to feel left behind.

"What are they looking for?" Zachariah asked, picking himself off the ground and adjusting the robe back around his shoulder.

"The Devil's Gate," Castiel rasped. "The gate to hell."

"That's just a story," Zachariah said, confused. "Meg made that up."

"Then what the hell is through those doors?" one of the hunters asked, exasperated.

"Yea, that sure looked like a Hellgate," the other one added.

"You don't know?" Zachariah looked surprised. "That's just a dike."

"What?"

"It goes straight to the conduit."

Blank faces surrounded Castiel, but he was starting to pick the pieces out of this hazy memory. The heat, the smell of sulfur, the noisy ventilation.

"This is just a volcano, guys," Zachariah said, wry smile on his lips. "There is no Devil's Gate. Just Vesuvius."

There was silence from the humans, but Castiel was distracted by the pounding in his head. The hand was back on his shoulder.

"Cas? You okay?" Sam asked, face swimming before Castiel's eyes.

"You're hungry, kid. That's what happens when you throw away your wings."

Something soft and crinkly landed in his lap.

"Found that in your coat."

The burger was cold and chewy, but it was still the best thing Castiel had ever tasted.


	31. As Dean Freaks the Hell Out

Dean was not fine. Most of him was, the parts that he'd usually be considering at this point. His gushy inside bits were still his gushy inside bits. His head was clear, his eyesight perfect. He would be fine if not for the pair of heavy, unwieldy, feather-covered limbs that were suddenly sticking out of his back. He had a new appreciation for Cas' strength if he was dragging these lead bricks everywhere he went. Weren't wings supposed to be light? How else did birds get off the ground?

He grabbed the end of one wing and tugged, bundling it under one arm before doing the same with the other. He probably looked ridiculous, carrying around Cas' wings like that, but at least he was mobile. Standing up was another challenge, his balance struggling to adjust to the added weight, but let it never be said that Dean Winchester could be defeated by what amounted to elaborate costume prop.

Of course, having to carry the wings left him with no hands to hold a weapon. The wings hit the ground with a muffled gust of air and Dean unbuckled his belt. It was only long enough to hold up the one wing, and that one not so well. The leading feathers still scraped along the ground, but most of the limb was bundled up against his back. The entire thing ached, but it was a small price to pay for the barbed flail he held in his hand.

Dean went for the door, got a foot away from it, then fell back on his ass with a grunt.

"The fuck?" he grumbled, pushing against the invisible wall that stopped him. It sure as hell wasn't there before when Cas had rushed out, and Sam before him. Didn't seem to stop Gabriel either. So when did it show up?

Dean poked the border with the flail only to have it pass right through, stopping only when it hit the white pane of the door.

"What is this shit!" he yelled, slamming a fist against the air. "Damnit."

The barrier ran the border of the entire room, mere inches from the wall. He'd run his hands across the entire thing, left wing dragging behind him through the blood and grime still splattered across the ground. He was at the third wall when he saw it, a glowing ball of light sitting at the apex of a pair of burnt out wings, as if the weird hadn't already been spread on thick enough to last him a lifetime.

To his credit, Dean poked the floating light with a wooden stick first, before he walked up to it expanded. Dean backed up against the reclining chair, wooden stick held out in front of him like a proper sword. He felt ridiculous. It wasn't even growing very fast. When it hit about a foot and half in diameter, it floated down the floor and with a flash, the light disappeared leaving Dean staring at a baby.

A baby with wings.

And like any guy who had to watch a glowing ball turn into a baby angel, he spent his first few moments standing perfectly still, brandishing the stick in his right hand. The baby didn't seem to notice it was no longer a floaty ball, because it just lay there for a while gazing longingly at the ceiling before the sudden urge to blink and hiccup simultaneously startled it so much that its face crinkled up and he produced the saddest little mewl Dean had ever heard, including the time Sam was stung by a bee when he was three. Both of them were suddenly in motion. The baby fought to flip over onto its stomach, tiny wings thrashing against the floor, the wall, and its own limbs. First thing Dean did was drop the stick before he bent down to stop the fledgling from hurting itself.

He didn't even know if it could hurt itself. Were angels born invulnerable or did they get that when they hit angelic puberty? Either way, the thing had tiny hands and tiny feet filled with tiny fingers and toes and everything about it yanked on Dean's instinct to protect. Dean shushed the angel on his shoulder, one hand curled under its butt, the other supporting its neck and head.

His, he corrected himself. The little guy was definitely a boy. The mewling stopped almost as soon as Dean picked him up, and now the angel was just a boneless lump curled up with its head tucked against Dean's neck.

Great, so now Dean was trapped in a room by an invisible border and he had a baby with him. By himself he could probably last the hours or days he has to wait before Cas or Sam or someone figures out how to spring him. With a crying, pooping, peeing baby, he might not make it to the end of the hour.

A downy wing rubbed against his hand and Dean nearly dropped the baby. Angel. The little guy probably didn't need to cry or poop or pee. Dean peered down at the fuzzy blond hair brushing lightly against his chin. It was a cute baby, even if he did had the slightly crushed look that newborns tended to adopt.

"So where did you come from?" Dean muttered. One angel got fried and a replacement model just showed up in its place? Suspicious was just one of many words Dean could use to describe the situation. He dragged the stupid lump of feathers stuck to his back towards the other char mark on the floor and went over every inch of the sooty blobs, but luckily there was no second ball of light. Or dark. Or whatever was the demonic equivalent of celestial soft focus lens glare.

The baby seemed to agree as it cooed softly, toothless gums rubbing at Dean's shoulder as it sucked at his sweaty skin.

"You better not be looking for a boob 'cause you ain't finding one here," Dean muttered, running hand down the angel's back, smoothing down its wings. There wasn't much he could do, stuck in this invisible cage. Even if he could use some tool to break down the door, that would just leave one less barrier between them and whatever creepy crawly was wandering the halls. Dean ended up kicking the dentist chair off its base, steel bolts gouging out their threads until the seat crashed to the ground. The plush cushions were soaked in gore and there was no way he was letting a kid near that, angelic or not, so he propped the back up and sat with his shoulder against the corrugated plastic of its base, one foot jammed up against the barrier in case it disappeared as suddenly as it showed up. The baby watched the entire process with half-lidded eyes and a vaguely disapproving curve to its brow.

"You're just like Sammy, you know that?" Dean grumbled as he leaned back, kicking at his flopping left wing until it was laid out haphazardly to their side. "Never seemed to agree with me even before he could talk."

The angel's response was to return to sucking at his shoulder.

"You teething or something? I swear if you bite me I'm going to lock your ass up in that closet and leave you there." The tiny wings fluttered once but the gumming didn't stop.

Two hours passed like that, Dean talking like he'd gone insane to a baby who seemed to explore the world through use of its gums and lips. He talked to it about everything from his hatred of eggplant to the ridiculous shapes people found in the stars.

He was expounding on how a pentagon attached to a square had somehow turned into a fearsome hunter when he heard something come from the hall. It sounded like a bunch of people arguing which could be anything except one voice was extremely familiar.

"Sam!" Dean yelled, struggling to stand up with the baby wrapped in his arms and one wing flapping around like a dead fish, the other dragging him down like a dead elephant.

The door swung open to reveal his little brother and Dean relaxed for the first time since he woke up. Sam was safe and he could see his stupid face with his own eyes, floppy brown hair, dimples, and the ugliest ear he'd ever seen.

"Dude. Your face," he said, staring at the twisted cartilage.

"Dean," Sam said, grin falling off his face as he stared back, but his eyes were on Dean's shoulder. "Where'd you get that?"

"Huh?" Dean glanced down at the little angel who had decided lolling its head on his shoulder was as much fun as covering it in spit. "Oh, no idea. Found Jaws on the floor."

"Jaws?" Sam asked with his squinty judgemental eyes that he's had since he was one. And sure, it wasn't the best name for a kid, but the thing liked to bite. A lot. If he had teeth Dean would be missing most of his shoulder by now.

"Hey," Dean snapped, trying to see around his brother. "Where's Cas? He went off looking for Gabriel and Rachel and some anchor."

"Yea," Sam said, running a hand through the sweaty strands of his mop-head. "He passed out a couple minutes ago. Dehydration probably. Uriel got him, Jo, and Ash out of here."

"Wait, what?" Dean yelled. "You brought Jo and Ash?"

"Well I wasn't going to get your ass out of here by myself!" Sam protested.

"What happened to Plan B?" Dean kept his voice low though what he really wanted to do was shout. Not in front of the baby, though.

"We, um, well, we did tell Bobby and Ellen."

"And?"

"And they put word out, but they didn't think it'd be a good idea to come rushing in."

"For the love of God, Sam. Why did you think it'd be a good idea to come rushing in? That bastard almost killed you! Do you know what I would have done if I'd let you... if Alistair..." Dean couldn't get the words out around the lump that had magically shown up in his throat. He swallowed it down and turned his eye to the woman next to his brother. "There's this thing in here, like an invisible box. I can't get out."

"It's an angel trap," Kali said, gesturing lazily at the black marks snaking their way across the ceiling and walls.

"The hell? That exists?"

"Now it does, apparently. I can get you out." Kali offered her hand.

"Hey wait," Dean started to protest but in the next moment the world seemed to wrap around itself, creating a tunnel that seemed dark but he could still see everything. They flew through the weird truck tunnel and popped out five feet away, out in the hallway. "Whoa." He'd flown before but it was nothing like that. It was still disorienting, but it was like walking on one of those conveyor belts rather than being tied to the bottom of a rickety cart flying over rusted rails.

"You should be able to fly now," she said as she released his arm.

"Hah," Dean scoffed, "Good one."

"Dean," Sam with shifty eyes that meant bad things were going to come out of his mouth. "You were held by an angel trap."

"Well I'm not an angel," Dean snapped, nipping that train of thought in the bud before it could take root and turn Sam into a giant pious fangirl. "Jaws here, though, is the Angel of Biting. Ain't that right, little buddy?"

The angel bit at his own fingers in response. At least Dean had one person-angel-thing on his side.

"Seriously, Dean. Where did you find him?" Sam can't seem to make up his mind on what to stare at. His eyes screw into the back of the fledgling's head before drifting back to the wing Dean's been dragging around and is probably covered in all kinds of unspeakable horrors.

"I've been stuck in that room since I woke up! I swear, there was just this glowy ball over Mikey's barbecue wings and then bam, baby. This isn't like that time I thought I knocked up that girl. It's an honest-to-God angel beamed down from the planet Heaven."

Kali eyed the child carefully but didn't reach out to pinch his cheeks or count his toes or whatever nonsense people seemed to do with babies. Not that he'd expect Kali to be one of those people.

"How did Michael die?" she asked, holding out in a staring contest with the kid.

"No clue," Dean shrugged, bouncing the fledgling in his arms. "One second everything hurts and the next I feel great, Sam's alive, Cas is fixed and those two douchebags are dust. Literally. Now come one, where is everyone? I still gotta chew Jo a new one for being such a massive idiot. I mean seriously, who just follows a sasquatch into a super-secret government conspiracy? I expected more sense from that girl."

"We should return," Kali agreed. "There have been no more demons since we returned from the conduit, but I do not trust this place." The demon grabbed onto both Winchesters and jerked them halfway around the world. Dean thought it felt a lot more like swimming than flying.

They landed in an apartment, no, a bachelor pad. The couches were a stereotypical black leather, the shag carpeting a creepy wine red, and the largest entertainment system Dean had ever seen sprawled across two of the walls. It was way too obvious for Dean's tastes, like the guy who lived here was trying too hard to proclaim "I'm here, I'm single, and I'm ready to party."

"Ah, you're back," someone British and bored said from behind him. Dean whirled around to see the blond angel from the hospital when he'd rebonded with Cas. What really drew his attention, though, was the bundle in the guy's arms. Blue eyes blinked at him as the other fledgling squirmed around. "Stay still, Samandriel," Balthazar grumbled as he tried to keep ahold of the angel.

"Where's Cas?" Dean asked, tucking his own fledgling against his chest. Jaws didn't seem to want to socialize which was totally cool. It'd been a rough day for both of them.

"Asleep," Balthazar drawled, eyes trailing down Dean's back to the bloody mass of a wing that flopped onto his carpet. "I can't believe it. What a mess you two have made."

"Yes, I believe you have a story to tell us," Kali joined in. "Castiel didn't answer anything before he passed out."

Dean couldn't shake the unease he felt when he thought of the angel sleeping. The guy would meditate sometimes, go still as a statue, but it really wasn't the same. He would snap out of his trance and grab your wrist faster than you could tweak his feathers. Even Dean couldn't manage that and Sam had always complained about how light a sleeper he was. The kid could never get away with anything.

"Where is he?" Dean asked, ignoring the question. Balthazar opened his mouth to answer, but Dean was already moving. Second door on the left down a dark little hallway lined with color prints of dinosaurs on tricycles and other ridiculous shit.

"Cas," Dean grouched, storming into the room. It was clearly the master bedroom with its giant king-sized mattress and dark mahogany furniture. A half-empty glass of water sat on the nightstand right next to a pale hand. Said hand was then attached to a pale arm that lead down to a mass of blankets that rose and fell gently.

"Cas!" Dean said again, yanking back the covers. Flyaway black hairs peaked out from underneath a pillow. Somehow the angel had managed to wrap his head between three of the half-dozen cushions that were piled onto the bed. "Come on, you have to get up and take your damned wings back!"

"Be quiet, Dean," Balthazar snarled, storming into the room. "Castiel is dehydrated, tired, and very, very human, no thanks to you. Least you can do is let him sleep."

"What are you, his mom?" Dean sneered, but let the blankets fall back down.

"No, I'm his friend," Balthazar shot back, narrowing his eyes. "And I would expect you to be as well seeing as how the guy gave up his damned wings for you."

"I didn't ask for them," Dean mumbled past the pang of guilt that shot through him. Whatever happened, Cas had saved Sam and ended those two winged sons of bitches.

"Now stop slinging that child around like a sack of potatoes. We need to talk." Balthazar opened the door across the hall that lead to a nursery of sorts. A massive piece of furniture that looked more like a playpen than a cradle took up most of the room. It figured that the guy would have a mini bachelor pad for his baby. Jaws seemed to like it, though, crawling around the edges to mouth at the wooden bars. Someone would have to teach the kid to have better taste and it sure wasn't going to be Balthazar.

When he stepped back into the living room, what looked like a war tribunal had assembled on the couches and Dean fought the urge to backpedal down the hall and hide under the covers of that massive bed. Maybe if he pretended to be dehydrated and asleep they'd lay off him.

"Dean Machine!" Ash said, smile so fake that he could have stolen it off a Ken doll.

"Good to see you, Dean," Jo added though her tone suggested nothing good at all.

The rest of the jury consisted of Balthazar, Uriel, Kali, Sam, Bobby, Ellen, and a female hunter with dark hair and darker eyes.

"Who the hell are you?" Dean asked, crossing his arms in front of his chest. He didn't like the way she was looking at him, especially since he was still covered in scraps of duct tape, blood, and rags. While some of the others looked like they were about to fall to their knees and start invoking his name, this woman looked like she wanted to fall to her knees for very, very different reasons. "What are you doing here?"

"Pamela," she leered. "I was visiting the rugrat when this lot burst in here looking for a place to hide, so let's just call my presence a happy coincidence."

"Dean," Ellen said, lacing her fingers together in front of her. "Pamela is Balthazar's first charge from before he transferred. Right now, she is the most direct connection we have to Central." She gestured to the empty armchair that had been suspiciously placed facing away from the television and towards the rest of the couches. There was nothing in the world that could make Dean take a seat.

"What happened?" he demanded, pre-empting their questions.

Everyone turned to Kali who explained calmly. "An angel, presumably Lucifer, managed to escape and took Ash's Guardian with him. Gabriel showed up briefly, taking out a few demons, before disappearing as well."

"He was looking for some sort of anchor," Dean offered.

"Yes, Castiel said as much."

"So the bastard has Rachel," Dean sighed. Cas must've been pissed. Or crushed, going from the panicked deer-in-headlights look he'd adopted as he ran out of the room. It just had to be Cas' sister. He almost wished it'd been Uriel instead.

"We searched the facility after that and managed to recover a few assets," Kali continued.

"Assets?"

Ash snorted, rolling his eyes and flopping back on the couch to look at the ceiling. "Some old, bald dude named Zachariah and an older, balder book."

"What? You have Zachariah?" Dean looked around the room.

"He's in my study," Balthazar supplied. "Guarded, of course."

Dean wondered who else was here to act as security guard, but something else was nagging at him. "What about the Devil's Gate? Did you find it?"

Everyone suddenly looked very uncomfortable and angry.

"There was no Devil's Gate," Sam finally said, hands screwed up into fists. "The place that Kali remembered was just a volcano."

"Seriously?" Dean yelled because that was seriously the last straw on this pile of crap. All of that for nothing. He clenched his hands around his own arms, dry sandy flakes of blood drifting between his fingers to dust the carpet.

"Dean, we have to know what happened while you were there," Ellen insisted. "And then we have to figure out what we can do, what you can do. They filled me in on the whole prophet gig and I think that-"

"Nope," Dean shook his head. "Sorry, but that's a no-go."

"Dean, you were held by an angel trap. You have wings!" Sam protested.

"You know what?" Dean cut her off, dragging the loose wing up into his arms. "I'm disgusting. Can't think 'cause I'm itching everywhere. You guys hang tight. I'm going to clean up."

He wasn't proud of it, but Dean Winchester turned and ran. The first two doors he opened went to a laundry closet and a coat closet. The next one had the little blue moon and stars that marked the nursery, and before he knew it he was slamming the door to Castiel's room behind him. Master bedrooms had master baths, he told himself repeatedly as he stumbled across the room.

Cas' hand had retreated under the covers, but Dean didn't stop to check if the angel had woken up before he'd locked himself in the bathroom. He fumbled for the light switch and threw himself into the shower, yanking on all the knobs until a blast of water pummeled against his face. Dean leaned against the wall, sucking in deep breaths. The water around him steamed up the glass walls but he didn't feel it, not a thing. He knew, vaguely, that it had to be hot, almost boiling, but none of that registered against his skin. Swirls of pink-brown runoff pooled around his feet and Dean started scrubbing furiously with his hands. He ripped off the last pieces of duct tape and rags and hurled them across the room. Slowly, the blood - Cas' blood, Sam's blood, so little of his own - disappeared against the onslaught of the showerhead and Dean could finally see his own skin again.

The steam settled and the water ran cold as he stared at himself. His scars were gone. The rippled skin had smoothed out, just as pale as the rest of him. His hand went automatically to his left arm and he let out a shuddering breath when he felt the upraised flesh. Just more proof that the handprint wasn't any old scar. His palm engulfed the tiny fingers that wrapped around his shoulder.

Dean stepped out of the shower and stripped off the remains of his pants to stand in his sodden boxers in front of the mirror, steam long dissipated back into the air. Without giving it much thought, his fingers found the buckle and unraveled his belt, sodden wing falling the ground with a thump. He couldn't see them like this, fallen to the ground behind him, hidden by the vanity. But even then, seeing only himself above the waist, he was different.

He touched his ribs, feeling the soft skin, the new flesh. His arm started shaking as his fingertips dug into his chest. It didn't feel like him anymore. Dean turned, his own image suddenly unbearable, and he trod on damp, gray feathers, slipping against the tiled ground to fall against the door.

"Goddamnit!" he yelled, huddling into himself, arms against his chest, knees against his arms. He needed Cas to take them back. There was no way he could live his life and see them constantly in the corner of his eye, feel them dragging him down. But he could even less force himself to leave the bathroom. In here, at least, it was just him and he knew what was and what should be. Outside, there were people talking about prophets and angels and what a great gift he had been given. They didn't feel like a gift. They felt like an accusation.


	32. Why Is It Easy to Be Someone You're Not

One moment Castiel was in the bowels of Mount Vesuvius, waiting for Uriel and the demons to return. The burger had left his mouth dry and wanting and in the next moment he was engulfed.

He fought, struggling against his bindings. They were loose and soft and clutched at every inch of him, even his eyes so that all he saw was darkness. He was lying on something soft that shifted as he moved until suddenly he found himself falling. Before he could start to truly panic, though, he hit the ground and the wrapping around his head fell away.

He was startled to find himself in a bedroom, bound only by blankets. It took a few moments, but he managed to place the silver and cream striped wallpaper and dried posy arrangements. Someone had brought him to Balthazar's room. The blood had been wiped away, leaving him clean and pale. His uniform was gone as well, replaced by a plain white t-shirt and a pair of soft gray pants. He felt a pang of guilt to burden his friend, not only with his presence but with everything that was surely to come with it.

He and Dean were anomalies and angels had never been kind to the outcasts of the world. Demons and nephilim were to be killed on contact. He wondered if the policy would be extended to Graceless angels.

Castiel untangled himself from the bedding and padded out of the room, letting the door fall closed behind him with a gentle click. The hallway was dark, but the room at the end was filled with light and the sounds of people arguing.

"We can't just keep this all a secret. We'd be just as bad as Michael!"

"They won't believe us. It's too big."

"We gotta debrief that, what's his name, Zachariah before we make any decisions."

"And the book!"

A hush fell over the room as Castiel stepped out of the shadows. "Hello," he said slowly. The likelihood that they would harm or restrain him was low as they had ample opportunity while he was unconscious, but he needed more than acceptance, he needed cooperation. There were too many things to be done for him to accomplish alone, especially now that he was, for all intents and purposes, human. He looked to Balthazar first, and though his friend still met his eyes, there was a wariness in his gaze that Castiel had never seen before, at least not on him. Instead, it was Sam who broached the silence.

"Hey, Cas." Sam gave a small wave before gesturing at the people around him. "That's Ellen, and you met Bobby. Jo. Ash. Pamela."

"So you're Dean's angel?" the older woman pointed out as Ellen asked, eyes narrowed. She wore the Hunter's uniform, but her hair was coiffed and her face painted, most likely an administrator rather than an active field agent.

He nodded politely before Sam spoke again. "You feeling better?"

"Yes, thank you," Cas ducked his head and took a seat in the only open chair because his muscles still ached and his head felt heavy. The armchair was so placed that once he sat down, he felt like the lone defendant in a courtroom of judges. In a way they were. The humans that he had never met before, Jo, Ash, Pamela, and Ellen, sat forward in their seats, edgy and unsure. Uriel's face of pure disgust scared him, though he didn't think he would harm him, not outright, at least. Robert Singer looked tired, bags dragging down the corners of his eyes, mouth turned down in a frown. The rest of them he couldn't read, not even Balthazar after all the years they've spent knowing each other in their lowest and highest moments.

"Did you find Dean?" he asked instead of dwelling on the painful clench of his chest.

"Yes. I thought he went into your room. Didn't you see him?" Sam answered, craning his head to peer down the hall.

Cas shook his head and sat forward a little, partly to look over his shoulder, partly to stay away from the narrow back of the chair shaped to accommodate an angel's wings. "He is alright then?"

"I think so. He didn't want to talk, though. I think he's freaking out."

Jo and Ash shot each other a look that Castiel didn't miss but couldn't decipher.

"Understandable," Castiel said, and he felt like he should be freaking out a little himself, but he wasn't. Perhaps he was still in shock or perhaps he knew he had more important things to worry about. Perhaps he was just more suited to being wingless. "Did Dean speak of his experience at the volcano?" Before they could help Rachel, find Lucifer, they would need to be on the same page.

A few shrugged or shook their heads. Uriel maintained his visage of disdain throughout Castiel's account of his experiences, though his frown did deepen when he heard of Anna's Grace, but remained silent until Castiel spoke of meeting up with Kali.

"Michael reported Anna's death. He claimed to have found her on the banks of the Rio Balsas," the angel said, fingers clasping together under his chin.

"There is never a body, only wings, and those quickly covered by the elements," Castiel murmured, closing his eyes for a moment, seeing the brief flash of Michael's charred feathers.

"Did you know of the child?" Kali asked.

"What child?"

"Dean claims to have found a fledgling over Michael's wings," the demon said, brown eyes shining.

"Are you sure Dean killed Michael?" Sam ventured, playing with the fabric of his pants. Balthazar must have provided him with new clothing as well.

"You are suggesting that rather than kill Michael, Dean regressed him somehow?" Castiel mulled the idea in his head. It would be something that Dean would do.

"Its just, I've never seen a dead angel before, you know? None of us have."

Jo and Ash nodded there agreement.

"And I was just thinking the burnt wings? They reminded me of... I took this class in cross-cultural mythology, right? And there was a lecture on the phoenix myth." Sam glanced around, hands frozen in mid-gesture. Nobody was mocking the idea, though Uriel was on the verge of taking offense.

"It's always this great firebird, and when it dies its wings turn to ash. And from the ash, a new phoenix is born. And there's stories of these birds all over the world; Greek phoenixes, Persian anka, Chinese fenghuang, Russian firebirds, and they've been around thousands of years. What if they're not just myths, what if they're a perversion of people seeing angels die and then-" Sam took a deep breath and looked around again.

"And then are reborn," Castiel finished for him, intrigued by the idea. It went against everything that was traditionally taught. Angels were sent to earth by God, but it was possible that He never sent new angels. Perhaps it was the same angels stuck on earth millennia after millennia. Sorrow washed over him as he thought of the perpetuated existence, the constant denial of their eternal reward.

"When angels die, we return to our Father's side," Uriel quoted, glaring at Sam with fury in his eyes.

"Do we?" Castiel questioned quietly. "Have you ever seen an angel die? Have you watched their Grace ascend?"

He knew the answer. Angels worked alone. They died alone. So it had been for as long as anyone could remember.

"No one has reported finding a fledgling at the same time a death is discovered," Uriel argued, nostrils flaring.

"Well, you angels are fluttery bastards," Bobby grumbled, reaching up abortively to adjust a hat that wasn't there. "Could've just flown off somewhere else."

"Samandriel appeared the day before Anna was discovered," Balthazar added, words stilted, as if the mere act of speaking them burned his tongue. His eyes never left the glass tumbler rolling in his hands.

"Michael could have easily delayed reporting Anna's death by a day," Sam argued.

"Anna was found in Mexico. I hear Samandriel was discovered in Iowa," Uriel shot back, white-gold wings flaring over his head.

"He probably lied! No one saw her, right?" Sam was poised on the edge of the couch, as if he readying to fight the angel.

"Sam," Castiel cut in before Uriel could take further offense. Harming civilians were strictly forbidden, but when an angel saw a person as little more than an insect, they could not be trusted to treat them as a man with worth. "There are records that you can check. See if you can match any other births and deaths, see if the angel population has remained constant over large stretches of time. The records may be difficult to access but-"

"No worries there, little guy," Ash drawled, leaning back so that Uriel had to move his wings to avoid them being touched. "If the records exist, Master Ash can get them for you."

It took Castiel a moment to realize the hunter was addressing him. Even without wings, they were at the very least the same height. "I- they exist. Every fledgling is registered with the HAS, along with where, when, and by whom they were found. I am unsure about deaths, but they are at the very least announced over the alert system. A backlog of all alerts is kept on the Central database." His year working as a glorified secretary was paying off after all.

"Alright!" Ash cracked his fingers as he stood up. "I'm going to need a computer, an internet connection, and a six-pack of PBR."

"Come on, I'll get you what you need," Pamela said, waving Ash into the next room.

Castiel turned back to the remaining group. "I overheard you speaking of Zachariah and a book."

"We're keeping Zachariah in my study." Balthazar waved one sandy wing towards the hallway before gesturing towards a large vase standing in the corner. "And it's not so much a book as a collection of scrolls."

Castiel had assumed the vase was just another of of Balthazar's acquisitions, oddities that he picked up at flea markets and antique stores around the country that were given away or otherwise disappeared by the end of the week. But now that he looked closer, the vase was far older than anything that could be simply acquired. This was the type of artifact fought over by museums, sought after by archaeologists. The clay was rough and unfinished, the neck sealed with wax and stone, and at the edge of the lip lay a line of carefully carved script.

He had to move closer to see what was written and was surprised to be confronted with two lines of classical Arabic.

"It translates as The Compendium of Raphael," Kali said, interrupting his own attempt at reading the words. While he had studied the modern language, he had very little grasp on its ancient roots.

"Who is Raphael?"

"An angel, most likely." Kali came to stand beside him, trailing one red nail over the wax sealant. "No one you would have known or likely heard of. This must date back to the sixth or seventh century."

"And you believe there are scrolls inside?"

"Or tablets, though I suspect papyrus is more likely. I have seen vessels such as these before. Most often they hold the works of madmen."

"I don't believe Lucifer would keep the works of just any madman," Castiel murmured, smoothing over the scratch Kali had left in the seal. "Is there any way we can read what is inside?"

"Something this old? You would need specialized equipment and trained archivists. The scrolls may turn to dust as soon as they are exposed to air."

Lucifer's complex had been painstakingly modern, from the ventilation system to the tiling. Even a few of Alistair's knives had been ceramic. To have kept something so antiquated indicated something of great personal importance, sentimental even. The strange painting of Jesus Christ and the angels was the only other object that could be over more than a decade old.

"Wait, what about Bela?" Sam asked, eyes lighting up as an excited grin stole over his face. "She said she collects things, artifacts."

"Bela is only interested in the frivolous. Jewelry, statuary, paintings," Kali sneered, crossing her arms before her, red nails tapping along her bicep.

"And illuminated manuscripts! She was talking about some Carolingian art she was interested in. I just thought she was into history at the time, but she probably meant to buy or steal, right?" He looked excitedly around the room.

"What the hell is Carolingian art?" Jo asked, scowling.

"Ninth century, darling," Balthazar supplied. "Think Charlemagne and the Franks."

"Right." Jo sank down so far into the couch that Castiel could only see the top of her head over the cushioned back. "The Franks."

"Kali, can you contact Bela for us?" Castiel asked and was relieved that the demon was inclined to agree. She left with a promise that she would try, but offered no guarantees. It was the best that he could hope for at the moment.

"Son, this must seem like some great big adventure to you, solving mysteries, unraveling history and all, but you've got bigger concerns than some old scrolls." The older female hunter leaned against a faux Grecian column with a drink in her hand.

"If you're speaking of Dean's predicament-"

"I'm not talking about that boy, though we do need to have a good long talk about what exactly happened there. None of that poetic crap you spouted earlier about souls and grace. No, what I'm talking about is the fact that Michael is dead. You ain't got anyone to sit in the big chair at Central." Her words are gentle but firm

Castiel wondered if this was how mothers spoke. He frowned, trying to remember the policies in place for the death of the Director. "He should have named a successor, someone to take his-"

"He did, years ago. But problem is, you know who he named? Gabriel." Ellen grimaced, taking a swig of the amber liquid in her glass.

"Michael named Gabriel?" Uriel repeated, disbelief evident in his furrowed brow. Castiel had to agree. Gabriel may be one of the oldest angels after Michael, but his nature was completely unsuited for bureaucracy. A current of sly trickery underlay every order he obeyed, as if toeing the line was a requirement rather than a deviation.

"He raised him, didn't he? Nepotism ain't just a human thing." Ellen shrugged and dismissed the question. "That doesn't change the fact that the HAS is flying blind right now. No more consecrations, no more graduations, no more promotions, no more contract approvals. And if the paychecks stop, you're going to start seeing the ugly side of Hunters."

"There will be no one to receive His divine word," Uriel rumbled, and Castiel was astonished to see his wings quiver.

"He is not limited by who is and who is not available at Central," Castiel reassured, almost reaching out to place a hand on the angel's shoulder, but stopping himself. While facial expressions remained difficult to read without insight into their souls, he understood perfectly well the aggressive tilt of Uriel's wings.

"If Dad decides to talk to Gabe, he'll have to come back. If He talks to someone else, then we've got a new Director, right?" Balthazar added, lazing back in his seat.

"Yes," Castiel agreed. "And until then, others can take over the Director's roles. Agent Henrickson can oversee operations at Central and we will find a senior angel to approve graduates for duty." There was more, of course. Michael had coordinated transfers, assigned charges, updated curriculum, mediated disputes, liaised with the branch commissioners. For all his deception, he kept the HAS running smoothly for decades. "There must be one angel who is capable of performing the same duties," he mused out loud.

"Angels are not bureaucrats," Uriel huffed. "We are warriors." Castiel could feel the damp cloud of resignation descending upon his shoulders. All angels went straight from learning about battling demons to actually battling demons. All angels except for himself. For a year, he had completed the paperwork for every action Michael had made, following him to graduations, consecrations, board meetings, and keeping people out of his office when he went on the occasional hunt. The Director had outlived most of his charges. The only problem was that he was no longer an angel. He held no authority without his wings.

"If you can find an angel who is willing, I can teach them what I know," Castiel offered. It was unlikely anyone would volunteer. Angels were trained for obedience, not ambition. He should have known Zachariah was no angel the moment he spoke of furthering his own political power. When speaking of Michael, they often spoke of his selflessness, his sacrifice. He was the closest thing the angels had to a martyr because he sat behind a desk rather than carried out God's will in the field. Even if they could convince an angel to act as Director, they would have to convince them to undertake his tutelage. But there was one angel that he felt he could trust, and may even trust him in return. "Balthazar-"

"No," the angel protested, eyes wide and hands held up in defense. "I have charges!"

"You only have two," Castiel argued in return.

"Yes, and they're very needy."

"I heard that!" Pamela called from the adjoining room.

"And I have a son," Balthazar continued, disappearing for a moment only to return with the fledgling in his arms. "Look at him. He needs me." Samandriel proceeded to swat at Balthazar's face, little face scrunched up in confusion. "He needs me to civilize him."

"You will infect the child with your inveterate ways," Uriel boomed, eyeing the child with concern. "I am willing to take custody of Samandriel if you do not believe yourself capable of providing a residence."

Balthazar pointedly tilted his arms away from the other angel. "I'd rather not. You see, Cassie? None of them listen to me. I would be a terrible Director. Don't give me those eyes, they don't work for Samandriel they will not work for you. We'll find someone else, there must be someone with a martyr complex."

"You will look," Castiel stated, rubbing his fingers together, feeling the filmy layer of sweat that had covered his palms.

"I will try," his friend promised.

A dull throb radiated from the base of his skull, like tendrils wrapping through his thoughts, twining them around their branches. They reminded him that he was limited now, more than he ever had been before. Without his Grace, he was nothing but a vessel, a body, and that body demanded his attention.

That body was tiresome. Even the simplest actions required so much determination.

"I will speak with Zachariah," he said, half to himself, half to the room at large. "He may know where Lucifer will have taken Rachel." Clenching his eyes against the light in the room dulled the pain just enough for him to take the few steps into the darkened hallway.

"Cassie," Balthazar said, placing a light touch at his elbow, fledgling absent from his arms. "You can't be this complacent about losing your wings." For once, his friend's face was grim, mouth pressed into a thin line.

"Tell me, please. Am I empty? Am I like Zachariah now?" Castiel asked, watching for a reaction.

"You-"

"Don't lie to me. You blink too much when you lie."

Balthazar laid one wing over Castiel's shoulder and he leaned into his friend's feathers. He didn't realize he missed the feeling until they were brushing over his back.

"You're not human," Balthazar told him. "You don't have a soul or grace or demonic essence. It's almost like there's nothing there, but you're not blank like Zachariah is. There's something still inside of you, but its like a reflection, a mirror held to a flame. It doesn't have that same warmth."

Castiel breathed a sigh of relief. The bond was still there, then, even if it was only a facsimile of what it should be. "Thank you." He stumbled when the wing disappeared from his shoulder. The throbbing was back and any thoughts apart from the desperate plea for it to stop drained from his head.

"Good heavens, Cassie." Balthazar threaded an arm around his waist. "You look awful. Your body needs rest more than your mind needs answer. Zachariah will still be there tomorrow and you're not going to do Rachel any good by collapsing. Do you need more water?"

"No," Castiel said, more to get him to stop talking than any consideration for hydration.

Balthazar guided him back into the bedroom he had awoken in and set him down on the bed, placing the half-filled glass in his hand. "Drink, pee, sleep. We'll see about getting you some food in the morning. And you better not bleed or vomit or any other unthinkable things on those sheets. One thousand thread count egyptian cotton. A gift from a very appreciative victim of a demon attack."

"Okay," Castiel mumbled, taking a sip. He waited until Balthazar had left, closing the door behind him, before he placed the glass down. His body felt strange. Perhaps it was prudent to heed the rest of the angel's advice and relieve his bladder before retiring, though he wasn't sure if he'd drank enough water to warrant as much.

The bathroom door was closed, and when he tried the handle, it did not budge.

"Go away," a voice growled from inside.

"Dean?"

The door suddenly swung open and Castiel was horrified at what he saw. "Cas, you're awake."

"Dean," he said again, voice low and scratchy. "Your wings-"

"No no no," Dean protested. "Your wings. They're your wings! Thanks and everything but you have to take them back, okay? I don't need them anymore. You have to take them back."

As terrible as the sight of his wings, bloody, torn, and mangled, the tremor in Dean's voice drew his eyes back up to wide green eyes and clenched jaw.

"I can't, Dean."

"Why the fuck not?" Dean grabbed him by his shoulders, slamming him against the opened door. Castiel winced as his head hit the wood, sparks exploding across his vision, quiet whimper escaping from his lips. The hands on him let go immediately. "Oh God, Cas. Sorry, I'm so sorry. You see? I can't do this! You have to take them back."

"I can't feel them anymore. You're the only one who can."

"Fuck!" Dean yelled, slamming his fists against the counter. "Why is everyone saying that? I just can't do what you want me to do."

"Dean," Castiel winced again, rubbing a hand across the back of his head. "I'm not asking you to do anything. I don't understand why you-"

"Of course you don't understand," Dean snapped, eyes narrowed and bitter. "I'm the one who got the short end of the stick here. All you have to do is-"

"What Dean?" Castiel felt heat flushing through his head, pushing out the residual pain. "All I have to do is be human? You think that's easy for me?" As Dean glared at him, he couldn't help but think that maybe it was. He may be dizzy and tired, but it was easy. He hadn't once thought what protocol dictated he do. Michael's rules only applied to angels, and he wasn't an angel anymore.

"Maybe you're right," he sighed, moving next to Dean to look at them in the mirror. The hunter, half naked, baring the perfection of his human skin. Castiel caught himself staring at the smooth expanse of his chest, scarless and startling though he'd only seen it a handful of times. In contrast, the crushed and matted feathers, still dripping with dirty water.

And then himself. He hadn't seen himself with his own eyes yet. He couldn't help but think of James Novak when he caught sight of his own eyes, his own nose, his own hair. He'd seen a photo of him, once, a clipping from a newspaper. The man had dressed in a plain suit, hair carefully brushed, face clean-shaven. The same features looked back at him in the mirror, but there was a wildness in his stubble, the wideness of his own eyes, the mess that was his hair. He expected to be angry or saddened by the empty space behind his shoulders, but nothing came but curiosity. Would his stubble grow into a beard? Would his eyes dull with age? Would his pale skin tan, like Dean's, or burn? Would he freckle?

"Maybe I was always meant to be human," he murmured and Dean's head snapped into profile, green eyes burning so hot though Castiel only met them through the glass.

"Don't say that," Dean whispered, more question than threat.

"No. I wouldn't have been able to save you if I had been human."

Dean looked away and Castiel could turn to see the man in the bright gleam of the LED lights. His eyes fell on the scar, the only one now, that stood out on the hunter's shoulder. His mark, he thought fiercely. No matter what he did now, he would always be proud of what he did that night in Kansas. And in the same, he could never regret what he had done in Italy. No matter how Dean would resent the wings, they were another mark of how Castiel had done something truly, unequivocally worthy of his abilities.

"Dean," he placed a hand on Dean's arm, below the handprint. Touching it might serve only to scare the hunter more. "Let me help you clean them."

"No," Dean glowered.

Castiel tightened his grip, just enough that he was sure it was felt. "Dean, you said they were my wings. And if they are my wings then I demand you take care of them. I will not let you treat my wings like sacks of filth to be dragged through dirt and grime. You will respect them and take care of them until the day they are no longer in your care. Now, step into the bathtub, and let me clean my wings."

A shiver ran through Dean before the tension dissipated from his shoulders. Castiel's hand fell from his arm, not because he jerked it away, but because he was walking across the room and seating himself on the edge of tub, letting the wings flop into the basin. Castiel breathed a sigh of relief before following.

They didn't talk anymore as took the showerhead of its bracket to better aim the water at the dirty feathers. The feathers were different now, sharper, heavier, and not just because they were wet. Angel wings did not become waterlogged. They did not stain or clump. They were Grace, weightless, diaphanous, barely physical, just enough to be seen or felt. Perhaps tying them to a soul tied them to the body as well. Or maybe this was simply how Dean manifested them because to him, they were a burden.

Eventually, he washed out all the blood, straightened all the feathers, so that the wings returned to their sleek, metal-gray. Dean surprised him by handing him a towel, though he did not move to dry the feathers himself. And when he was done, the hunter gathered a wing under each arm and hauled them out to the bed, letting them fall, heavy and damp against the covers.

"Happy now?" he grumbled, seating himself on the edge of the bed.

"Yes," Castiel answered testily.

"You look like shit."

"That seems to be the general consensus." The room swam before before his eyes, but he couldn't sleep yet. He had failed to urinate while in the bathroom.

"Dude, when people look like shit, they lie down." Dean grabbed his wrist and yanked him down hard enough that he bounced as he hit the mattress.

"I've never peed before," Castiel grumbled into the covers, crawling further up onto the bed.

"Do you need to pee?" Dean grabbed the blanket beneath him and dragged it out, turning Castiel onto his side in the process.

"No."

"Then what are you mumbling about?"

Castiel decided that he didn't like blankets. They were oppressive and confining. But they were warm. Like feathers. Somewhere along the line, his left hand had found the trailing primaries of one of Dean's wings and had fisted around them, and he couldn't make them let go. He shouldn't have to, not if Dean kept insisting they were his wings.

He fell asleep thinking of that moment when Dean had been shining, wing stretched in glory behind him. In that moment, Dean had been the Prophet Michael had hoped for, had believed in. He held the power to change the world, to flood the land or part the sea, but even then, that had not been what Dean wanted. In that single, perfect moment, Dean had held true to the Hunter within him. Fire had not rained down from the sky, no plagues, no gold, no glory. Everything that Dean could have been was reigned in that one room. The aggressors had been destroyed, the victims healed, and Dean had shut himself down. He could have allowed the power to consume him, but instead, he had chosen to consume it. And in that moment, Castiel knew that he had done the right thing, that even though the hunter did not want them, the wings had always been Dean's.


	33. Upon a Time

Dean blinked down at the sleeping angel. He looked so small without the giant wings behind his back. He hadn't noticed, back at the bunker, because everything had been so bright and so bloody. And Castiel had still seemed huge somehow. Now, though, engulfed by the ridiculously puffy comforter, Castiel seemed to shrink into someone else. Something else, he realized with a start. He seemed human.

The hand still clasped around the trailing pinions of the left wing were like the rest of him. Pale and thin. It was hard to imagine those very fingers and arms and legs withstanding the abuse Alistair had heaped onto them. Dean took the hand in his own, curling his own no-longer-calloused fingers around the bony ridges and soft, pliant valleys, registering the warmth of the blood pulsing under the skin without really feeling it. He slid the loosening fingers off the feather and the wing settled against his back.

They no longer splayed bonelessly across the ground. Instead, they bunched up against his back, like they were hiding. The only time he'd seen them like this was when Cas had been near catatonic back at the hospital, when they'd first met.

Part of him wanted to slide under the covers and curl up with his back pressed against Castiel's. Maybe he could go to sleep and the wings would crawl off his shoulders and back where they belonged. The wings twitched once, as if reaching for the angel and he jerked back.

"I swear, Winchester, I'm going to kick your ass," he muttered and ripped himself away from the bed. He had stumbled his way into the hallway before realizing that getting further from Cas also put him closer to everyone else. The door swung shut on its own, slotting back into its frame with a thump. It wasn't like he'd slammed it or anything, but it was plenty loud enough for someone to hear it and come to see which one of them had emerged from the bedroom.

He'd know that silhouette anywhere, and not just because it was too huge to be a normal human being.

"Dean," Sam said, surprised. Dean could make out every feature of his brother's face, from his slack jaw to his raised eyebrows, though Sam was backlit as fuck and the hallway was really just a giant patch of shadow. He tried not to think about it.

"Hey, Sammy," he said weakly, attempted smirk falling flat into a grimace.

"So, uh, you wanna talk about it?" Big hopeful puppy eyes lit up his brother's face and drew a bark of laughter from Dean's chest.

"When has the answer to that every been yes?" he answered wryly.

"I just thought that, you know, since there's been some big changes that you might..."

"Not that big. I promise you, Sammy, talking about it is always going to be the last thing I want to do, even if that was a sure-fire way to score an all-access pass to Heffner's mansion."

This time, when Dean smirked, he made sure his lips stayed that way. "Now what's a man got to do to get some grub around here?" He shouldered his way past his brother and was relieved to find the living room significantly emptier than it had been the last time. The only people still there were the Bobby, Ellen, and Jo.

Ellen was giving him the stink-eye something awful, like he'd pissed in the Wheaties that morning, right after trashing her car and running away with her Smith & Wesson. He looked everywhere but at her, eyes landing eventually on the bottle of Jack that had found its way into Bobby's hand.

"Don't you dare run away, boy," Ellen commanded, crossing her arms in front of her chest.

"Mom," Jo hissed, eyes shifting quickly between her mom's steely profile, the wings, and the ceiling over Dean's head.

"You may be some super angel-human hybrid now, but that doesn't mean you don't have to show me some damned respect."

"I'm not running," Dean muttered, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"Then plant your behind in that there chair and listen for once in your goddamned life."

Dean shifted uneasily at the edge of the cushion before taking a deep breath and landing on his backside in the seat, wings parting magically behind him to fall to either side of the narrow back.

"So we got a plan?" he asked, preempting any of their questions.

"Gotta be more specific there, boy," Bobby grunted, swiping his free hand across his forehead. "Practically everything's going to the crapper now."

"To find that son of a bitch, Lucifer!" He frowned and looked between the three of them. "What the fuck else would I be talking about?"

"Watch your tongue," Ellen snapped.

Dean startled back into the seat, affronted. Ellen's mouth was as foul as turducken and he'd learned half his cusses from her.

"Pamela and Ash are looking up some stuff about angels, dates for births and deaths," Jo cut in, pointing towards the sliding door that covered most of one wall. "And Kali went to talk to someone about some old books."

"How's any of that supposed to help?" Dean frowned, leaning his hands on his knees.

"I think there might be some link between angel deaths and births, like rebirth of some sort," Sam said, walking over to sit next to Jo.

"What, like Jaws is Michael?" That was the stupidest thing he'd ever heard. Angels didn't eat, sleep, poop, or stink, but they sure as hell died. Everything died.

"You named him Jaws?" Sam said, face distorted by the force of his own bitchiness.

"Yea. What's it to you?" he challenged, but apparently it wasn't something Sam was too keen on arguing about.

"Whatever."

"And why are these dates and these books more important that finding out where the hell the biggest dick on the planet has flown off to?"

"Well, if Jaws," Sam said with air quotes, "is actually Michael, maybe we can pull some information from him."

"You're not interrogating a baby, Sam," Dean warned. He'd spent hours with the nestling and he hadn't gotten any douchebag waves off him.

"You know," Ellen started, "this would be a lot easier if you could just use -"

"Those damn books might tell us where the bugger has snuck off to," Bobby interrupted, earning himself a murderous glare from his boss. Dean was already halfway off the seat, but sat back down. "And Uncle Fester in the den probably knows a thing or two."

Dean frowned for a moment. "Zachariah?" he ventured cautiously.

"You got it." Bobby raised the bottle of Jack in salute.

"Then I guess I know what I'm doing." He could do that much. It was just talking to Michael's right-hand dickwad.

"That's not going to do any good," Ellen protested, but Dean was always up and headed towards the hallway before he waved her off.

Interrogation, his mind supplied unhelpfully, and he froze in front of the doorway. His hands were clean, dry and smooth, and they would stay that way. The door opened to his quick knock and he stepped into the soft glow of the ensconced light bulbs.

Zachariah wasn't looking too good. Bitter irony flooded Dean's mouth. Here he was with a pair of wings he didn't want, and there was Zach, like a goddamned ostrich who wanted to fly but couldn't. He didn't even look like he could run.

The wingless wonder was ashen-faced and wheezing, lying prone on a chaise lounge with a crocheted blanket draped over his lower half.

"He's sleeping," a voice said, startling Dean. He knew instantly that the thing he was looking at was not a man, but a demon, one of the yellow-eyed ones like Kali and Bela.

"Who the fuck are you?" Dean hissed, spinning around to face him fully.

The demon looked older than Kali, not that it meant anything to supernatural beings. He had short blond hair and a butt chin and was searching Dean's face with his creepy sometimes-yellow, sometimes-grey eyes.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

"Should I?"

"I was a friend of Mary's," the demon said casually and Dean felt like all the air had been sucked out of the room. Apparently he could still shiver, even if he didn't feel the cold, and the blood pounding in his ears couldn't possibly be just an illusion.

"What?" he croaked, ugly feeling growing in his chest.

"The name's Azazel. We met a few times when you were just this big. Funny looking kid, too." Azazel placed his palm near his knee.

"My parents would never let a demon in the house," he rasped, taking a half-step towards the demon, not with any plan to doing anything about it, thoroughly ignoring the part of him whispering that he could if he wanted to.

Azazel sighed, shoving his hands into the worn out jeans. He looked strangely worn down in his faded clothing and rumpled jacket. Crowley and Kali seemed to favor the business-bitch look with their ironed shirts and shiny leather shoes. Even Bela opted for the higher end designer jeans and grossly obvious fashionable tops. This guy looked like he could have stepped right out of a big rig after trucking it across three states to feed a family of three and a cigarette habit. But looking the part wasn't what made something human.

"Some people have that something special, like a spark. Let's them see the things everyone else ignores or glances over. Really gets under the surface of things, you know? Your mom was one of those people." Azazel chuckled lightly, eyes seeing something that Dean knew wasn't there. "Of course, if she knew I was a demon when we first met, she would've shot me full of salt before even bothering to call down her angel."

"What are you talking about?" His dad was the Hunter, not his mom. His mom stayed home and taught him about the stars and made peanut butter sandwiches cut just the right way.

"Your dad never told you?" Azazel furrowed his brow and looked oddly affronted. "No, I guess he wouldn't. They fought about it all the time, you know. I mean, she was a great Hunter, could've been one of the best if, well, if John could've been a reliable father half as often as he was a reliable drunk."

The familiar spark of anger at the mention of his dad's alcoholism pushed Dean out of the murky cloud of suppressed panic he'd been wallowing in since Cas had found him on the bathroom floor.

"Who do you think you are, you bastard?" Dean did take that step this time, one hand swiping at the douchey collar of Azazel's jacket but missing, partly because he didn't account for the extra weight on his back and partly because the demon danced aside, hands out in a placating gesture.

"Whoa there, boy," he chuckled. "You always were a lively little thing."

"Shut the fuck up," Dean growled. "How do you know about my parents?"

"Look, kid. Settle down and I'll tell you everything, okay? Just sheathe those things. Making me nervous." Azazel nodded at the space over Dean's shoulder and he realized with a start that the wings had flared up, hovering aggressively over his head. As his eyes widened, they shuddered and fell back down, bunching up against his spine so tightly that it was almost painful.

"Thanks," Azazel coughed, and Dean shot him a glare. Even if he had been the one to put them down, it wouldn't have been for the demon's sake. Azazel planted his hands on his hips and leaned back, joints of his spine popping like firecrackers. A glint of metal drew Dean's eye to the gun tucked into the waistband of the worn jeans. "You know, I am surprised your daddy didn't say nothing to you about me. Guy hated my guts. Blamed everything that wrong with his marriage on me."

"What?" Dean croaked, terrible suffocating feeling leaving him fever hot.

"After your mama died, gave me a call. Told me he was gonna hunt me down, make me pa-"

Dean lunged forward, hand scrabbling at the demon's waist until his finger closed around the skin-warmed metal. Azazel grappled with his wrists, shoving his hands before the loud pop of the pistol firing made them both jump back.

The demon was bleeding from his side and Dean's knuckles were white against the gun's hilt. This wasn't some lying sleaze trying to get on Dean's good side with a few lies about his parents. This was the yellow-eyed demon that his dad spent the second half of his life chasing down. This demon ruined their dad, made Sammy's life hell just by existing and here he was right in front of Dean.

Azazel scowled, pulling up his shirt to see the bullet wound. "Why you gotta go and do-"

Dean fired again, sending two more bullets straight into the demon's chest. "Cas!" he shouted frantically. Only an angel could take down a demon permanently. "Castiel!" he screamed again and again until the door slammed open behind him.

But it wasn't Castiel who came through the door.

"Dean, what are you doing?" Sam yelled, grabbing onto Dean's arm.

"That's him, Sam!" Dean snarled, never taking his sights off Azazel. "That's the bastard that killed mom!"

"Figures you'd be just like your daddy," Azazel sneered, digging one hand under his flesh to pull out the leaden lumps.

"What are you talking about, Dean?"

"They exist, Sam! Yellow-eyed demons. We thought he was insane," Dean sobbed. It had always been Sam who was full of acid and doubt but even as he was defending his dad, Dean had stopped believing. He should never have lost that. "We looked for this bastard for twelve years."

"You don't know that, Dean! Just put the gun down. It's not going to hurt him!" Sam pleaded.

"I don't know what your problem is, Winchester, but this is my house," Balthazar said as he manifested at the end of the pistol's muzzle. "And you will stop getting blood over the bloody furniture." One impossibly strong hand grabbed the barrel and twisted until Dean's fingers cramped and fell away with a cry.

"He's a murderer!" Dean yelled, surging forward until two pairs of hands grabbed him by his arms and shoulders and dragged him out of the room.

"Stop it, Dean," Sam gritted out like the strongest emotion he could dredge up was embarrassment. "Azazel has been helping us, okay? You're better than dad was. Don't jump to the same conclusions that he did."

Dean stopped his struggle to gape at his little brother. "You knew?" he accused but Sam didn't even bother looking sheepish.

"Yea, okay? He told me about how he knew mom and how jealous dad was."

"Jealous?" Dean spluttered. "And you believed him?"

"I mean, dad was kind of obsessed," Sam said quietly. "Sometimes I thought he was going crazy."

"Geez Sam, can you just stop making dad into-" Dean threw his hands up in frustration, running his hands through his hair. "He was right!"

"Azazel wasn't even there, that night," Sam explained, slight whine in his voice. "Dad just assumed it was him."

"Says him!" Dean snarled back. He couldn't believe that his brother would take a demon's word over their dad's. Sure, John hadn't been the most reliable figure in their lives, but he was still their family. They were supposed to be giving him the benefit of the doubt, not some demon.

"Dean, he had this." Sam dug into the front pocket of his shirt and brought out a necklace. A small, round locket on a thin gold chain. It looked ridiculously tiny and fragile in Sam's massive hands, and clicked up with a flick of his thumb. The photo was old, but the Hunter in the picture was younger than Dean had ever seen her but still immediately recognizable.

"Mom," Dean choked out, taking the locket in his hand. Next to her was a man, smiling with his arm around her shoulder. He looked the same age as he did now, with the same haircut, and almost the same clothes. Azazel. The inside cover held an inscription.

To my friend A, From M.C.

She must have still been Mary Campbell.

Dean felt the tears welling up and fought them back down, pushing back the grief, focusing on the anger still simmering beneath it.

"This doesn't mean anything."

"It means he was telling the truth about knowing mom, at least," Sam argued.

"And that makes it okay that he murdered her?"

"We don't know that!" Sam threw up his arms, exasperation setting his jaw in a disappointed jut. "The entire justice system is founded on the principle that you are presumed innocent until proven otherwise!"

"That only applies to humans. You don't see us putting vampires and werewolves in front of jury, do you?"

"Well maybe we should!" Sam yelled in return. Dean couldn't believe it. Hunters may have entire stockrooms worth of binders filled with line after line of tedious rules, but the Winchesters only had two. Don't die, which Sam couldn't really protest even if he had a dozen fancy law degrees. And if it ain't human, don't trust it. As much as Sam and his dad had never seen eye to eye, on everything from politics to how to do the laundry, he'd never expected him to dispute the entire basis of of Hunting. "Castiel isn't human, you know," Sam said, narrowing his eyes at Dean.

"Yea, and?" He didn't like his brother bringing Cas into this, pinning him up next to all the things that went bump in the night.

"He doesn't have the right to a lawyer, to face his accuser, to stand before a jury of his peers."

"So what? He hasn't done anything wrong!" Dean protested. If any of the winged legions were going on trial, it should be Lucifer, not Cas.

"He's only officially wanted for questioning, but everyone thinks he helped you murder the sheriff."

Dean sucked in a sharp breath. He had forgotten about the murder wrap hanging over their heads.

"People are furious about it! A riot broke out in Jerusalem. It was just on the news. That cult, the one that thinks angels are just demons with wings went after a Hunter, tried to trap her angel when he showed up."

"Fuck," Dean spat out, turning to pace the hallway. "Well it's not like a trial's going to help now!"

"That's not the point, Dean."

"So what?" Dean rounded on his brother, hands flying between them. "You want to be this demon's lawyer? Try him for mom's death?"

"That's not what I'm saying! I'm just saying that we have no proof that he's the one who killed mom other than the fact that dad accused a yellow-eyed demon of doing it. Did dad even say how he knew?"

Dean stopped, his head spinning. In eleven years he had to have asked, once, how his dad knew, didn't he? He had to have, but he just couldn't remember what had been said. "Dad saw him," Dean guessed, but Sam had been able to pick out when he was talking out of his ass since he was seven and Santa brought him a bundle of lollipops and a squeeze toy stolen from the convenience store.

"Fine," Dean spat out. "What's he know?"

"I didn't ask him yet," Sam admitted. "After he gave me this we just talked about mom, you know? Did you know she used to sing? She was part of this folk band in high school, played at the county fair."

"Oh, so you're best friends now. You know what, I'll talk to him."

As he turned to go back through the den door, Balthazar slid along the wall, placing one tawny wing between them. "Oh, he's going to love talking to the dumbass who just shot him. Why don't you cool down, Red Bull, let someone who isn't hogtied to an angel talk to the demon who hates angels."

"You are an angel!" Dean shouted.

"Yes, I noticed. Thank you for pointing that out. I don't mean me." Balthazar flipped a wing towards Sam and motioned him to the door.

"Oh whoa, whoa, whoa there. Sam's a civilian."

"I don't know what they taught you at your little Hunter academy, but rapport is important currency in these situations and your brother is the only one here who has any."

Sam looked small, standing there in the hallway under the shade of Balthazar's wing. He looked like the debate team competition was in three days and they might be leaving in two. Dean had faked the stomach flu that time in Duluth and he was willing to go as far to keep his brother out of that room. There was a pissed off demon, probably looking for some more Winchester blood to add to his collection, and he wasn't going to let that happen.

"Yea well, rapport might get you a date to the prom but Azazel is piss-scared of me. Last I checked, intimidation worked better than getting buddy-buddy."

"You tried to shoot him, Dean. And you've got wings," Sam pointed out and Dean stiffened, weight on his back suddenly heavier than they had been. "Look, I'll just go in there, make sure he's even still here and isn't going to try and set you on fire or something."

Dean moved to protest again, but Sam was already through the door, leaving Dean and Balthazar to stand awkwardly in the hallway, both tense, both watching for the other to make a move first.

"I still don't see what Cassie sees in you," Balthazar muttered.

"Good, keep your eyes to yourself," Dean snapped, tired of being insulted for the next decade or so.

They waited in silence for a few endless minutes where Dean tried to stop himself from tearing through the snotty angel to get into the den before Sam came out, grimacing but no worse for wear. "Well he's still here. He thinks you're an idiot, though," Sam said, glowering at Dean. "Lucky for you he wants to know what Zachariah has to say as much as the rest of us."

"Whoop-de-doo," Dean deadpanned. "So what, he's just going to hide out in there until Zachy-boy wakes up?"

"Basically," Sam shrugged. "He says Zachariah's getting worse."

"Is he even going to wake up then?" They needed him. He couldn't just die before they got anything.

"We'll have to see."

"Crap! We just can't get a fucking break. So what do we do now?"

"Wait for Kali. Azazel says he'll talk to us when everyone's here. No angels, though."

Dean fidgeted, picked at the edge of the handprint on his arm.

"I'll have to ask about you and Cas since neither of you is, you know." Sam trailed off, eyes fixing on the ugly painting on the wall.

"Right," Dean muttered. "Is there anything to do other than wait, then?"

"Yea," Sam perked up, jogging down the hall into the living room and tossed Dean a book. "We're reading up on demonology."

"Why?" Dean scowled. As much as he hated having nothing to do, he didn't feel settled enough to do research.

"We gotta take apart those angel traps and some of the other things we found at the volcano." A spread of photos was strewn across the table in the center that Dean hadn't noticed before. Or that they'd hidden from him for whatever stupid reason. Even now, Jo was watching him warily as he picked up the photo of the angel trap. She let out a breath of relief when he set it down again.

Dean settled down with the book and flipped it open to the front page. It was a fairly recent textbook written by a linguistics professor from Stanford. No question where that book came from then. The first few pages were a recap of ancient European language structures before moving onto Asian languages. The hairs on the back of Dean's neck prickled and he looked up to see Ellen's eyes flicker quickly back down to the stack of papers in her hand. The next time it was Jo. And then it was Bobby, giving him a stink-eye that he didn't even try to hide when caught. By the time he looked up to see Sam staring at his wings and Jo looking worriedly between Sam, Dean, and the vase in the corner, he slammed his book shut and announced, "I can't concentrate here. I think I need a change of scenery."

He ended back up in the master bedroom with his one book and a couple copies of the traps and sigils spread out on the floor. It was quiet in here. Figured Cas hadn't learned how to snore yet. There was no wheezy grunts from Bobby as he finished off the last of the Jack Daniels. There weren't any wet smacks for Jo as she popped her gum. There was only the sound of his own blood pumping through his veins and the faint rustling of feathers.

It was still too loud for him to concentrate.

Dean scooped up one of the blankets that Cas had managed to kick off onto the floor and draped it over his back before pulling aside one of the curtains. It was half-light out, but the sun was off to some other side of the building. There were too many people out for it to be the crack of dawn. They milled along the sidewalk below Balthazar's balcony in small groups and clusters. The balcony wrapped around the side of the apartments and Dean nearly choked when he saw the Eiffel Tower rising in the distance. They were in Paris. The City of Love.

A door slid open a floor below him and a girl stepped out, tossing a blanket over the railing of her balcony to dry. She looked up and smiled at him, giving him a neighborly wave. She was pretty, even though she'd already wiped away her makeup for the day, revealing the dark bags under her eyes. Dean used to have those too. He smiled at her, tried to make it flirty but his cheeks barely made it halfway to his eyes. He wasn't too disappointed, though, when she threw him a look of sympathy before heading back indoors. The blanket shifted around his shoulders and he clutched it tight.

The city was so much more crowded than Austin or Lawrence. Made it easier for the nasties to get their claws into a bunch of people. There was a vampire outbreak here, the year after their dad died. A few angels ended up stepping in to clear it up.

It was also much brighter at night, patches of lights sparking up until the entire street was lit by incandescent glow. A few of the neighbors had even wrapped their railings in Christmas lights, leaving Dean in his own little shadowy hole. People probably wouldn't even think twice if they saw him, not unless they remembered his face from a wanted ad. No, they'd just mistake the winged freak for another angel, ask for benediction, weep tears of joy, thank the Lord for their salvation and Dean wouldn't be able to take that. He'd crumble into little bits and get stuck in the bottom of shoes until he was ground to dust so fine that he wouldn't exist anymore. Better that he went back inside, to people who at least weren't going to turn him in to the HAS. Still, he stayed there on the faux-marble balcony book tucked under one arm, ass planted on the edge of some ornamental block, until even the City of Light darkened.


	34. Following the One-Eyed King

The blankets were soft, warm, and oddly familiar, draped gently over him. If waking could be this pleasant every time, he'd go to sleep each night with anticipation. The room was dark as he blinked open his eyes, only the soft glow of the table lamp giving illumination, but even so he instantly recognized the feathers covering his torso. For a moment he thought that it had all been a dream, that the wings were still his, but when he absent-mindedly ran a finger through the feathers, the entire limb jerked away. A rustle of pages was followed by a soft thump and Dean whirled around and off the floor, failing to catch the book that fell off his lap.

The rush of cool air made Castiel shiver and Dean grabbed the blanket off the ground and shoved it against his chest as he slid up against the headboard. "Dude, sorry about that. They do their own thing sometimes."

Castiel scowled and pushed the blanket away before swinging his legs off the bed. He wasn't upset at the presence of the wings, but the abrupt removal was objectionable. Dean still looked guilty though, and it was nice to see something on his face other than pressurized panic.

"What're you doing?" he asked, glancing down at the book on the floor and seeing the photos scattered across the floor. "Is that the angel trap?"

"Yea, parts of it, and some other stuff they found around the compound. It's ridiculous! I mean look at this," Dean waved a sheet in front of Castiel's face. "It's set up like a demon trap but other than this part of the outer ring, it's just bits and pieces of a bunch of things. There's most of a zombie ward here except the center's been replaced by a spirit binding sigil and this part here just looks like scribbles. It's like building an engine with six pistons and no flywheel!"

Castiel grabbed Dean's wrist to stop the furious gesturing and pried the crumpled photo out of his fingers, glaring at him until the man calmed down enough to look him directly in the eye. A quick nod passed between them, saying I'm okay. I am not mad. This is something we can deal with and Castiel did not know how far that extended past the notes in his hand.

He glanced between the picture of dark scraggling lines of glyphs and the hasty slanted capitals of Dean's annotation. The depth of the analysis surprised him. Dean had dug beneath the surface image of each symbol and made guesses on how they would affect the working of the traps as a whole.

"You studied archaic symbology?" he asked, grabbing another of the photos that was an extension of the one in his hand. Something was bothering him, like an itch he couldn't place though he ached to scratch it.

"No," Dean shrugged. "Mechanical engineering. But I grew up with a lot of this stuff so I guess it's easier to figure out how things fit together."

"To deduce this much with no formal training is remarkable," Castiel told him, feeling an odd sense of pride though he had no hand in Dean's intelligence. The Hunter grunted discontentedly at the praise and buried his face in the book he had opened.

"So you have anything to say on the fact that Lucifer is doing magic gibberish in his big fancy volcano bunker?"

"Even if all these pieces were compatible, something of this size should simply collapse on itself. There's a reason most summoning and banishment spells require a complicated list of ingredients. The sigils themselves simply do not have enough power."

"I've seen some pretty damned gigantic demon traps," Dean said, disbelieving.

"Traps are different, they don't have to create or destroy anything. They simply have to tie a demon's essence to a physical locale." Castiel shook his head. He felt preposterous, applying the same rules to these monstrosities as the most basic of demon traps. "Are there more of these?"

""Yea. They must've filled an entire memory stick with them. They left them all in the living room."

"They're gone?" Castiel asked, surprised. Sam, at least, he had expected to stay as long as his brother was still here. The rest, he wasn't sure the tie between them, but there must be something more than a simple work relationship for them to have come this far. Balthazar, just to be contrary, had moved completely to his flat in France after his permanent residence at Central had been terminated.

"Nah, they're all asleep, so we have to be quiet going out there."

"I would like to see the remainder of these photos."

Dean headed out the door and gestured for Cas to follow him with a flick of his wrist. "I was going to make a trip out there myself. There're a few books that I think that I might need."

The apartment was dark, not even the glow of the city shown from behind the drawn curtains. Dean ventured confidently through the hallway, but Castiel was lost as soon as the bedroom door closed behind them. His hand clenched around the door frame and for a moment, even though he knew he was standing in Balthazar's home, where he had been dozens of times before, he felt utterly lost.

"Dean," he hissed into the darkness. When no answer came after a few moments, his stomach clenched and he edged forward. "Dean," he called again, louder this time.

Something moved directly in front of him and Castiel jumped backwards, nearly tripping on his own feet until a hand grabbed his elbow.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," Dean's familiar voice said and Castiel clamped a hand firmly on the Hunter's bare arm.

"I didn't know where I was," he tried to explain, his heart rate still high though he seemed more at ease with Dean's presence.

"Give it a moment, your eyes'll adjust," Dean soothed and after a moment of just standing there, the man chuckled. "Never thought you'd be scared of the dark."

"I'm not," Castiel spat out, releasing Dean's arm and clenching his hand at his side. The dark had always been the deep corruption of a demon's soul, the abyss of hell, the absence of his Father's presence. These were the things to be truly feared. Now, the dark was only the lack of electromagnetic waves of the proper frequency and that was only a limitation of the human retina. And yet he couldn't deny the tension that had gripped his body, the unreasonable panic that had clouded his mind. "I will not be afraid of the dark," he told himself. He would embrace his other senses and overcome this childish reaction.

Dean snorted. "Then why do you look like you're going to faint?"

Castiel shot a glare in the direction of Dean's voice. "If you only plan on mocking me, go elsewhere." Even as the words left his mouth, the terror that Dean would actually leave him here, alone, made his hand shake. But the shuffling of feet on the carpet did not grow fainter. If anything, Dean had shifted closer.

"I've scared of flying," Dean admitted after a moment, moving to stand just close enough that Castiel could still feel his presence, a blanket of warmth hung just out of reach.

"You have flown several times."

"Not like, angel flying. Though that ain't a bag of fun either. I mean on a plane, or as I like to call them, metal deathtraps."

"Airplanes are engineered to have several magnitudes factor of safety," Castiel argued. "You are more likely to suffer critical failure in an automobile."

"Yea well, you're the one scared of the dark," Dean huffed and Castiel could just make out the smirk on his face as he realized that he could see again. He breathed out in relief and Dean snorted before turning back down towards the living room, muttering under his breath, "You big baby."

The sleeping forms of three people were outlined on the couch and laid out on the floor. They picked there way over and between them to get to the table in the center, still scattered with piles of books and papers. Dean checked the spines of the books before selecting the ones he wanted and Castiel gathered the photos into a pile before they returned to the bedroom.

"Where did these books come from?"

Dean shrugged. "Sam probably got Balthazar or Uriel to give him a lift back to his dorm. Kid's pre-law but I swear he has as many books on Hunting as he has on the justice system."

"It is an impressive collection."

"Gotta thank Stanford for that." Dean tapped on the large red "S" stamped over the library barcode on the inside cover of the book he held. "Two months after he gets to college, he calls me complaining how he maxed out the book limit on his card. Two hundred books, Cas. No idea how he even has anywhere left to sleep," Dean complained, but his face was soft and smiling.

Castiel smiled with him, eyes lingering for a moment even after Dean was engrossed in the text, bottom lip worried between his lips. Dean was a Hunter, a warrior of sorts, but somewhere inside him was buried an academic and Castiel wondered at the layers a single human could possess. Angels were only ever expected to do one thing. Perhaps he had always been a little jealous of the flexibility offered to humans. Had he been born without wings, he could have focused on languages, history, technology, anything without the sense of condescension from his peers.

"You okay, Cas?" Dean asked, and Castiel realized that he had been staring at the ground.

"I supposed I am considering what life would have been like as a man, rather than an angel."

"Hm," Dean thought for a moment. "Well you probably would've had to do a hell of a lot more laundry. And I bet you'd be one of those people who ends up owning a Yugo." Dean snickered, and Castiel felt insulted though he had no idea what that was.

"I would do no such thing," he huffed, feeling like he had to defend himself, though he couldn't place from what.

"Oh yea? What would you drive then? A DeLorean? A Nova?"

Castiel assumed Dean was speaking of cars and pulled up the first car that came to his mind, from an article he head glanced over in an economics magazine. "A Prius," he said smugly but Dean burst out laughing. "If you do not believe me then I shall purchase one as soon as I am available to," he huffed and the Hunter sobered immediately.

"I wouldn't bother," he said stiffly.

"Why not? I will need transport, and if flying is as terrifying as you seem to think it is, then a car would be the most viable and convenient option."

"You don't need a car," Dean stressed gruffly, flipping over to press a finger into Castiel's chest. "Angels don't need cars."

"No, but I do," Castiel said, grabbing Dean's wrist and forcing his arm down and away. "Dean, you're not an angel. The wings do not make you an angel. But I'm not an angel anymore, either."

"Well, why the hell not?" Dean ripped his hand out of Castiel's grip as he stood up. Castiel followed him up, unwilling to have this conversation while the Hunter loomed over him.

"Because I can't be an angel."

"Yes, you can!" Dean insisted wildly as he grabbed Castiel by the shoulders.

"I can't do anything that an angel should be able to, Dean! Even before all of this, I was completely incompetent! What is a dove that does not fly? What is a candle with no wick? What is an car that does not drive?"

"You can't just compare yourself to junk," Dean snapped, eyes dark and furious, fingers digging into Castiel's flesh almost painfully.

"Then don't compare me to an angel!"

"Well then what do you want to be!" The hands on him squeezed so tight that Castiel let out a choked gasp. Dean recoiled and stared at his own trembling hands.

"Shit, I can't... I... I can hurt you now," Dean spat out. "I didn't mean to I just..."

"It's okay," Castiel said, rubbing at his shoulders. His first bruises were sure to bloom by the morning, he marveled. "Here." He picked up the book Dean had been reading, placing it in the Hunter's palms, still held out away from him, like he wasn't sure if he would hurt himself.

"I will not purchase a car. My wallet is empty and I do not believe any proper salesman would trade me a car for my shoes," Castiel said gravely as he sat back down amidst the photos. He only let his face relax after he heard a wavy snort from Dean before the man sat back down against the bed, wings moving naturally to splay out on top of the covers.

For now, they had Kali, Balthazar, perhaps Uriel, should they need to travel anywhere, but in the long run, Castiel would eventually have to find proper employment, purchase a home, should Gabriel's become unavailable to him, learn to drive. He shook his head. He was thinking too far ahead. They had no guarantee for the next week, much less anything past that.

The new photos seemed to make a different set, the coloring of the tiles slightly different under the adjusted lighting. Tiny lettering that Castiel could only guess belonged to Sam filled the edges and part of the back.

Unlike the angel trap, this one was not formed of clean lines. There were rows and rows of scribbles, entire sections that had been obviously redrawn. Sam had translated some of the words, seemingly notes for problems encountered. One quadrant had a large circle drawn over it, a hasty scribble that indicated a problem area rather than a part of the trap. The words were written in Latin, a language that Castiel could actually read.

Too much power - needs feedback loop.

The words for "power" and "feedback" stolen from more modern iterations while the rest was written in the classical language. Lucifer had not struck Castiel as someone who would slave over dead texts, but obviously the angel was widely-learned. Along the bottom edge was a date, and next to it another line of text that Sam had not translated yet, and under that a single name.

"Dean," Castiel called out, twisting off the floor to show the page to the Hunter. "Look at this."

Dean glanced at the sheet and read out, "Eggs, bacon, a dash of salt," before raising an eyebrow. "Dude, I don't read... what is this? Latin?"

"Yes," Castiel sighed and sat down beside him, reaching over to point at the words in question. "This is a date, the day that we first met, in fact. It says 'Lilith successful integration, physical depletion.' And here, underneath it, that's the date for a week after that. 'Eve - successful integration, physical depletion.' And a day after that. 'Meg.'"

"So... what? win a date with a creeper?" Dean hazarded and Castiel realized that Dean had never been properly introduced to the demon.

"Meg was the demon that attacked us and brought us to Lucifer's facility," he explained.

"That bitch! What happened to her? You guys gank her?"

Castiel shook his head. "Unfortunately, she escaped. I believe she is searching for Lucifer as well. It seems that he abandoned her after Michael's death."

"They deserve each other," Dean muttered. "So what's this got to do with her?"

"After she left you, she took care of some of my injuries." Dean's frown deepened but he didn't interrupt. Castiel explained all that had transpired between him and Meg, and when Dean asked, what happened with Zachariah.

"So what, you think Lucifer created her like some Frankenstein knockoff?"

"Is that the novel about the scientist who reanimated a corpse?" Castiel asked, causing Dean to roll his eyes.

"Never read the book, but in the movies, he always sews a bunch of pieces together and then zaps it with lightning."

"I see." Castiel considered the images. "Yes, I believe that is an apt analogy. She was not like any demon I had encountered. At the time I had not thought much of it. Before this past week, I had never encountered a demon such as Kali before, either, but now I believe that she may not be a demon at all, at least not in the sense that we are used to. She didn't have the darkness of hell staining her soul black. She was just empty, like a doll built to hold Anna's grace."

"But Mikey ripped out Raggedy Ann's angel-cream stuffing."

Castiel felt sick at Dean's vulgar description, but it was fitting for the horror that Anna must have gone through. Had she survived having her Grace ripped from her? When Dean had attempted to take his, it had felt like dying and there was no way Anna would have given hers up willingly, not to a demon like Meg.

"This is sick," Dean murmured, looking between the different photos. "Do you think that's what all of these are? Lucifer's experiments?"

"Perhaps," Castiel answered sullenly. "But why did he create Meg in the first place? Why would he try to transfer an angel's Grace into a hollow body?"

"I don't know. Power maybe? Create a bunch of super soldiers?" Dean suggested, running a hand over his face, ending up with his chin cradled in one hand, elbow propped on his knee. "It's ever super-villain flick that ever existed."

"And what does Michael have to do with any of this?" Castiel felt restless, irritated at his own limited knowledge. "Michael destroyed Lucifer's creation, but they seemed to be working together." A shiver ran down Castiel's spine as he came to a realization. "With Michael's help, Lucifer wouldn't need to create his own power."

"What do you mean?"

"The angels would have done anything Michael had asked," Castiel said lowly, raising his eyes to look at Dean's. They all had so much faith in their Director, so much faith in the incorruptibility of their purpose, but they never asked. Castiel wouldn't have.

"Even take over the world?" Dean asked, incredulous. Of course he would not understand the blind obedience that had been ingrained in each angel since birth. They could think, make suggestions, but they would never consider saying 'no' to a direct order, especially not from Michael himself. Michael was the mouthpiece of their Father and they would never question His decisions.

Dean must have seen the answer in his eyes because the Hunter paled. "But wouldn't that go against His will? What about all those speeches about how angels were placed on Earth to enact His will against the evil of hell? Fuck, you don't even interfere in 'natural' deaths!"

"I don't know," Castiel admitted miserably, staring down at his own hands when he couldn't bear looking at Dean's disappointment. Angels were forbidden to aid their charges should they perish in any ways unrelated to demons or tainted souls such as vampires or werewolves. But he had always believed Michael to be brilliant. His altered motives did not change that. "Perhaps if he found a way to justify it in our eyes. If he had made it an issue of safety, or an objective in the war against Hell."

"How the hell does that even happen? How does a freaking angel go Darkside?" Dean fumed.

"I don't know," he spat back bitterly.

They sat in silence on the bed, air thick and heavy between them. Neither of them were mad at each other, he didn't think, still a part of him wanted to lash out, to point out that the man expected him to know things he couldn't possibly know, to demand an explanation of why Dean thought so little of himself that he could not bear the burden of his wings. What came out, though, was petty, even in Castiel's eyes.

"Why the fuck aren't you wearing a shirt?" he growled, staring pointedly at Dean's bare chest. Nudity was a completely natural state of being but the anomaly of Dean's shirtless state was distracting simply by being different.

The hunter blinked at him, glancing down at his own torso before curling up, entire body shaking and Castiel backpedaled in horror. "I'm sorry, I did not mean to cause-"

"You," Dean wheezed, looking up so that Castiel could see grin plastered over his face. "Oh my god, I taught an angel how to curse! I am such a bad influence."

Embarrassment flooded Castiel's cheeks red. "I knew how to curse. I simply never chose to employ it. And I will be sure to refrain from doing so in the future. It was simply a lapse in good judgement and-"

"Cas, whoa," Dean cut in with a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "It's not a bad thing. It's just a part of being human. Sometimes you just gotta let it out and cursing helps." He paused for a moment, swallowed, and fixed his eyes on Castiel's, unblinking green. "Welcome to the club."


	35. Save the Broken Bits of Pizza and Hearts

Castiel fell asleep again around four am according to the clock on the nightstand. Dean rolled his eyes and took the papers and pen that were still gripped loosely in Cas' hands. Having someone who was basically fluent in Latin was pretty handy in this secret angel villainy business. Most of the notes on the Meg-circle had been translated. A lot of them didn't mean much, one or two-word instructions to double the size of this sigil, redraw another one. In the corner of the second sheet was a symbol that Castiel assured him was a question mark and not something more arcane.

Dean set the photos down and dragged the covers over Castiel and the sleeping angel buried his face against the cotton, his hands coming up the grip the edge of the comforter. Like a little kid, Dean thought with a smirk. Try as he might, though, he couldn't stop thinking of Cas as an angel in his head. It wasn't because he'd never seen Star Wars or learned to drive or played catch. There was just something about Cas that still screamed angel. He couldn't figure it out. It wasn't even that the whole wingless deal was just temporary. It wasn't because he never had parents.

In the past couple of hours, Dean had lost the urge to smash Azazel into tiny bits, but that didn't mean he was okay with it all. And now everyone was asleep and Balthazar was off with Pamela doing the things Hunters and Guardians were supposed to be doing.

He wondered in passing how long it would take them to figure out Michael was gone and how long after that the shit would hit the fan. That wasn't his problem though. They were angels. They would figure it out. Maybe God'll take a page from the epics and stick a magic sword in a lake or in a stone and choose the next Director that way. They'd all be so pissed if it was someone like Cas or balthazar.

Dean felt like he should be tired. He thought that his eyes should hurt, should burn from staring hours at too-white textbook pages and too-black print. He rubbed them just to make sure that they didn't. Whatever. So he didn't have the stupid physical signs of fatigue. He was still bored. He needed a break. Cas was right, though, he needed to find something to wear, but for some reason none of the clothes in the closet were built to accommodate wings. The sheet would have to do, tied like bandages around his torso.

Dean found himself outside the nursery door and pushed his way inside. The babies had found the joy of grabbing each others' wings and then yelping when their downy fuzz got rubbed the wrong way. Jaws glanced up briefly at him, stretched one stubby hand up towards his face before the other one threw himself onto one tiny wing and the both of them tumbled over. Dean reached down and scooped each of them in one arm, and earned himself two blue-eyed stares. If Jaws had been a human baby, he shouldn't even be able to lift his head, yet here he was, craning his neck to look at Dean's back. A tiny hand reached out and before Dean could stop him, it landed on the crest of one wing.

Dean jumped. The wing jumped with him and he felt the muscles move below thin skin, sinews stretch between bone. There wasn't really anything special about the touch. It was like a baby grabbing his arm. Except he shouldn't have two arms sticking out of his back. He deposited Jaws and Balthazar's kid back in their giant crib and let them go back to exploring the world through leaping at each other. Or, well, flopping in the general direction of each other.

Dean left the ducklings to themselves and wandered a door down and knocked twice, knuckles rapping sharply on the door. After a moment of silence, he thought that maybe the room was empty after all, nothing but bad paintings and a corpse, but the sound of a chair scraping across the floor kept him from barging in.

"Who's that?" Azazel asked.

"Dean."

Footsteps came closer to the door, but it didn't open. So the demon wasn't stupid, though the door probably wouldn't stand up to some hardy kicks. "What do you want?"

"We need to talk."

"Alright," Azazel said slowly. "Then talk."

"Face to face."

It took a minute, but the demon did eventually unlock the door and crack it open. He stood like a tree in the doorway, feet planted, arms held wide, one hand behind the bulk of the wood. "You got something to say, kid?"

"You spoke to Sam," Dean accused.

"Sam's got the right to talk to whoever he wants."

"Well you don't, you got that? You stay the hell away from him. We need your intell on this, fine. But you're not getting near this family again, you hear me?"

"I ain't never been anything but a friend to your mama," Azazel retorted, eyes narrowed. "If you don't want nothing to do with me, that's your prerogative. But Sammy's a big boy. He wants to hear the truth from me, I ain't gonna withhold it."

"Listen you son of a bitch," Dean hissed and Azazel took a step backwards, letting the door fall closed an inch.

"You leave me be, now, boy. No one knows more about vessels than I do and that Zachariah fella needs all the help he can get right now if'n he's gonna be fit to tell me anything. So you go back to whatever room you came out of and I'll go back to what I was doing and we'll all be one big hostile mess in the morning when Kali gets back."

Dean was taken aback, not by the words but by the fear in the demon's eyes, and only that gave Azazel enough time to shut the door fully, lock clicking back into place. That had not gone how Dean planned it. What was the demon getting out of cozying up to Sam? He briefly considered kicking in the door, but he knew by the time he got in there, Azazel would probably have fluttered off to save his skinny ass. Because Dean would have found a way to make him hurt, demon or not.

He didn't really want to go back to Cas' room since he was getting too restless to stare at obscure texts for any longer. Studying had never been his forte, even in college. It's why he never even considered going for a liberal arts degree. Problems he could work on, but memorizing dates and names and dead languages would have made him go out of his mind. Engineering also meant he got a straight pass to the Academy without having to putz about in industry for three years. And there was no way he was going to be in the same room as Cas without burying himself in words. Without something to occupy him, he'd probably end up thinking. About wings and about Cas and he just couldn't.

Balthazar's apartment wasn't all that big. There was the master bedroom, currently occupied by one sleeping angel, the living room, currently occupied by the Scooby gang, the nursery, which was probably a guest room once, the den, which was a definite no-go, the dining room, a hazard zone of electronics pilfered from the second-hand shop down the block, and the kitchen. It was nothing like Gabriel's extravagant mansion in Thailand, but then again the only people who would have one of those in the heart of Paris were beheaded decades ago.

With nowhere else to go but the bathroom, Dean ended up looking through the cabinets in the kitchen. Typical, he thought, when most of them turn out to be empty. He was almost surprised that Balthazar even had a fridge, but he definitely was when it revealed a half-eaten pizza and two bottles of coke. It wasn't beer, but he'd take what he could get, not for hunger or thirst, but for the familiarity of a food break after a long day hitting the books.

He didn't bother trying to heat the pizza up, since the circa 1950s cherry-red stove couldn't be trusted and there was no microwave to speak of, and he was fucking thankful for that when the first mouthful of cold sauce and cheeses hits his tongue. He almost spat it out, it was so much. Too sour, too salty, too sweet and if this had been hot and melty he didn't know if he'd be able to handle it. He could taste the preservatives and the flavoring agents and what was probably yellow #4 in the cheddar. The slice got tossed back into the box and knowing Ash, it wouldn't go uneaten. As Dean shoved his mouth under the faucet, shuddering at the prospect of washing his mouth out with coke, he got why Cas was so damned picky about his food. Even the tap water tasted like metal and bacteria. That burger must have been some sort of heaven-sent organo-hippie crap made of corn-fed cows or some shit to have passed the taste test. Jesus, how did Cas put up with all the stuff Dean had made him try?

With the kitchen basically ruined for him, Dean thought about leaving the apartment altogether. He'd have to find a shirt, maybe a coat, something that could cover up the wings on his back. A massive and awkward contraption of blankets and belts had formed in his mind before he admitted the attempt would be futile. There was just no way to hide something like that without looking like a giant creep. And if he was honest with himself, he was looking for excuses to hide.

And the best way he knew how, especially from his own traitorous thoughts, was with a beer and two hours of big explosions and shiny cars, but he hadn't found a tv yet. Guess angels hadn't discovered the joys of mindless television yet. The closest he had gotten was the mass of electronics Ash had set up in the dining room. Somewhere in the maze of wires and exposed circuit boards, Dean managed to turn on the computer, unfamiliar operating system flashing onto the screen. The penguin on the screen smiled happily at him until he figured out how to open the web browser, get on the internet, and download something loud and flashy.

The sun crawled its way over the horizon to overpower the city lights that had never completely disappeared just as the closing credits scrolled up the screen. Usually after a crappy blockbuster like that, he'd be half-asleep and ready to nod off. Instead, he had been wide awake for the entire hundred and thirty-five minutes of poorly-written dialogue and unlikely plot twists. At least that one chick had been hot and there was that one guy who had been in a few episodes of Dr. Sexy a couple season back. It was pretty hilarious to imagine the straight-laced military boy dying and waking up as the ditzy renegade street racer.

Sam jolted awake in the next room with a muffled yelp, followed by a loud thump. Knowing the large size of his brother's body in proportion to the long, yet still ultimately shorter couch, Dean surmised that he had most likely fallen out. Grinning to himself and ready to prove his own hypothesis, Dean slid open the adjoining door only to be confronted with three rather amorphous shapes. He rubbed his eyes, wondering if he had watched the screen a little too closely, and peered back into the living room. The three figures were definitely Kali, Bela, and Crowley, but they still looked fuzzy about the edges, like they were glowing darkness.

"Well well," Bela chided, coming across the room with a predatory look on her face that raised Dean's hackles.

"Back off," he snapped, but she only paused to smirk at him before returning to her casual perusal.

"Nice toga there, Hercules," she snorted, flicking at the massive knot that held the bedsheet in place, right above his shoulder.

"And what the hell took you so long, princess?" he scowled back, grabbing her wrist before she could reach for the wings.

"I was busy," she sighed and twisted her arm out of his grasp in an artful motion that ended with her hand in her own hair, pulling the tie off her ponytail as if that had been her intention from the beginning.

Dean wanted to wipe the smug little smirk off her face. "What? Your snobby little friends at the Louvre couldn't bear for you to leave a moment too soon."

"I was at the Guggenheim, as a matter of fact. These things take secrecy and very precise timing, not that I'd expect you to understand anything about precision. Now where's this treasure you're all dying for me to unearth?"

Sam was practically vibrating out of his skin in his eagerness to get started on whatever was in that ugly ass vase in the corner. Jo was just coming around, getting introduced to the new demons even though all she couldn't care less who the new demons were before she got a cup of coffee. Ash wasn't even trying, had just shoved a cushion over his head and continued to provide them all with a soundtrack of snores and grunts.

Dean pulled Kali aside, waving her into the hallway, ignoring Crowley's blatant curiosity.

"I need you to tell me about Azazel," he told her, trying to look her directly in the eye, but his gaze kept flicking to the dark halo around her head.

"And why is that?" Kali crossed her arms, manicured nails tapping against the lines drawn over her bicep.

"I don't trust him."

Kali didn't have to roll her eyes for Dean to sense her exasperation.

"He said he knew my mother."

That got one eyebrow to wander upwards. "Then why don't you ask him, seeing as you have some shared history?"

"Because he might be the one who killed her," Dean spat out, forgetting for a moment that he was accusing the demon's family.

The dark fury that radiated not only from Kali's deep brown eyes, but also from the halo that got fuzzier and wilder about her frame quickly reminded him. "You may be the prophet, Dean, but you have no right to accuse my brother of anything so carelessly."

"I'm not," Dean bit back. "I'm suspicious. So I'm asking you to tell me about him."

"He is not a murderer, no more than I am. Azazel was the first destroyer. It was he that first taught me the ways of culling the hellspawn. He could track a demon by scent alone. He could wipe it from the face of this earth faster than you could flap a wing."

"Could," Dean said flatly, cutting into her little rant about how awesome her brother was. "But not anymore."

Kali paused, shrank back from where she'd begun to loom. "He has chosen a different path, recently. I mocked him, once, for deviating, but now, perhaps, he was in the right. He has chosen to focus on a different segment of the populace."

"People. Humans," Dean grimaced, but frowned in confusion when Kali shook her head.

"No. He has turned his attention to the folly of angels."

"Excuse me?" Because what? Folly of angels? Sounded like some bad emo-punk rock band or some weird celestial version of Watergate or the Lewinsky scandal. "Did Michael fuck his intern or something?"

"No. This began long before Michael came to power."

"And? What is it then?"

"I do not know, and even if I did, it would not be my place to tell you. That is irrelevant to this discussion anyways. Just know this, Dean Winchester. If my brother did kill your mother, it is with good reason and my allegiance will always lie with him before it finds you." Kali didn't wait for a reply, their little talk clearly at an end and Dean didn't feel like he'd found out anything at all.

"Hey, he said he'd talk to me when you guys got here," he called out gruffly, hurrying after Kali into the living room where Sam, helpfully corrects him.

"He said he'd talk to us," Sam stressed. "And not about what you want to talk about."

"Yea well, talking's talking. You learn a lot about a guy by what he says, even if it ain't about what you need to know," Dean said, hushed so that only Sam could hear.

"You're such a creep," Sam huffed back, rolling his eyes.

"You love that about me," Dean winked and gave his brother a swat on the arm. "You get Ash to wake the fuck up and I'll go grab Cas."

Between the two of them, they managed to wrangle everyone in the living room, stuffed onto the couches, rearranged so it was less interrogation and more, Sam's words, 'open forum for the sharing of information and ideas.'

Cas was a sleepy blob of comforter and messy hair, propped up in the recliner with cushions and a mug of coffee that had been deemed, "Disgusting. Why do humans subject themselves to this concoction?"

Only with assurances from every person in the room that it got better and that the caffeine was worth whatever complaints he had about the taste that they stopped Cas from dumping the brew over Balthazar's carpet. And after his own experience with the horrid french pizza, Dean figured that Cas could stand a little bitterness in the mess of sugar and cream.

Ash had chugged his own coffee with the enthusiasm of a horse brought to water, though he was still probably another mug or two from opening his eyes the rest of the way. With Ellen and Bobby on speakerphone, Azazel finally sauntered out, hands tucked in his jean pockets. His eyes, though, were sharp, honing in on Dean as soon as he got into the room.

"There a problem over there?" Bobby called through the speaker, tense silence noticeable even through the phone.

"I don't know," Azazel drawled. "Do we?"

Why the hell was everyone looking at him? He wasn't the backstabbing hellspawn in the room. So he'd shot the guy. Not like it had actually hurt him or anything. Basically they were all bitchy because he put a few holes through the, did he have to remind them, demon's shirt. And they were still all looking at him, though Azazel had also stopped moving and looked like he might be ready to turn around and leave. Well good. If the dick was still scared of him then all the better.

"Nah," Dean grunted, giving Azazel his biggest, craziest smile. "We're good."

After a few moments of shifting in the seats and getting comfortable, Azazel finally started talking.

"I started investigating the angels when a friend of mine died." Azazel paused and looked around the room, eyes ending on Sam. Dean hated it enough to want the demon's yellow eyes back on him. "She was a hunter, Bonded to an angel named Joshua. She quit the force before she died, but as you all know, that doesn't severe the Bond." It was one of those things that everyone knew but no one officially talked about. Part of the selection criteria for Bonded hunters was the likelihood for leaving for the force. Being Bonded basically meant a life-long angel shield against demons and they didn't want people getting into the job for the protection just to quit for something easier.

"Officially she died of smoke inhalation in a house-fire caused by faulty wiring. No one questioned it. No one gave it a second thought." The hiss in his voice didn't escape Dean.

"And you did?" Jo asked with a decidedly bored expression on her face and Dean gives her a mental thumbs up.

"Not at first," Azazel admitted, glancing at Jo. "But her husband did. He said he saw a yellow-eyed demon in the house that night. He accused me." Azazel spat out the last word with such hatred that his eyes flared bright yellow for a second before Dean saw his visibly force himself to relax, sinking back against the chair, loosening his jaw.

"I went by the ruins of that house. It was weeks later, but I know my brothers and sisters. I know their handiwork. As sure as I am sitting here, a brother of mine set that fire. But then Joshua would have seen. He must have sensed her distress, even if it were merely a fire. He would not have been able to distinguish before he was actually at the scene. If it wasn't a simple house-fire, he would have interfered, he would not have let Mary go."

"You are so full of shit!" Dean roared, finally unable to stop himself when he heard his mother's name come from the demon's lips. "You killed her and you're trying to cover your tracks!"

"Sit down, Dean," Sam snapped and dragged Dean back to the couch by his shoulder. Dean only allowed it because he hadn't been expecting his brother to defend the bastard of all things.

"You can't believe this guy!" Dean threw his hands out in frustration.

Sam ignored him to turn back to Azazel. "Do you have any proof?"

Azazel sat forward, hands on his knees and fixed Sam with a serious stare. "If I had concrete proof, I would have come forward long ago."

His brother started to say something but Azazel put up a hand to stop him.

"What I do have is a list of coincidences. It's not a long list, but its enough to get me thinking, to get me looking closer."

"At what?" Sam asked, tightening his grip when Dean tried to shake the hand off his arm. Sam was a big boy, now, Dean reminded himself. If he wanted to listen to this drivel there wasn't anything he could do to stop him.

"Joshua. I admit, at first it wasn't the most rational decision. Grief drove me a little mad and I blamed the angel for not saving her. All I knew about him was what Mary had told me. He was old, even for an angel. Over a hundred and going strong."

Azazel glanced at his watch. "Someone should go check on Zachariah."

Jo stood up and waved Ash back down. "I expect a full report," she told him and disappeared down the hall. The demon didn't wait before continuing.

"I figured the best way to find out more was to chum up to one of his other charges. Mary had only mentioned one of them, some guy in his sixties who'd lost his leg in a mountain-climbing accident. Had to retire early. Died of a heart attack two years before I got to him. He'd been stuck in a wheelchair for fifteen years, and loved his red meat, so I didn't think much of it. Took me awhile to figure out who his other charges were. The second one, a woman, early forties. She got promoted to a desk job. Got offed by food poisoning from some bad tacos during the botulism scare a couple years back. Third one, man late fifties. Wife won the lottery. Early retirement. Died from a random mugging in Chicago. I got through six of them before I stopped looking for the charges and started looking for the angel."

Dean didn't know what to think. He desperately tried to compartmentalize, to force everything back into their separate boxes. Michael and Lucifer he could deal with on their own. His mom, his family, that was a different thing, something he didn't touch. But more and more they bled together.

"You searched for Joshua?" Castiel croaked, frowning so deeply that Dean could barely see the blue of his eyes. He couldn't understand why the angel was focusing on that of all things.

"Yes," Azazel confirmed. "I didn't find him. There weren't any pictures or news articles or mentions of him since nineteen eighty-eight. Even his house was gone, demolished and made into a part of a public park."

"Garden Park?" Castiel asked. And when Azazel nodded, the angel added, "Built in nineteen eighty-nine. I remember that. It had been in planning for years, but got moved at the last second to become the first park in the angel district. Gabriel brought us to the opening."

"Somebody was orchestrating it all. The retirements, the deaths. Somebody didn't want anyone to notice when Joshua disappeared."

"Wait a minute," Sam said, face screwed up in thought. "What about our mom? She didn't retire because of any of that."

Dean added a rather belated, "Yea," a little pissed that he hadn't pointed that out himself.

"Did she ever tell you how she met your dad?"

"He rescued her from a wendigo," Sam answered, giving the short version of what had once been one of Dean's favorite stories.

"She was a Bonded hunter. He was a hot-headed traditionalist ex-marine without a college education. You never found the fact that they'd been in the same division much less on the same hunt to be suspicious?" Azazel questioned them with a quirk of his eyebrow.

"I find it highly unlikely that anyone could have planned a love affair between John and Mary Winchester, at least not one that would lead to marriage and two children," Castiel said grimly, taking a sip of the coffee that had to be cold by then.

Azazel just shrugged. "Maybe it was real love, no manipulation involved. Either way it was mighty convenient for someone who wanted to get all of Joshua's charges off active duty."

"So?" Dean demanded. As much as he hated it, he needed Azazel to get to the punch line. He wanted someone, anyone, to give this all some point, so it wasn't just chaos that they were wading through.

"There's really only one person who could have access to everything. They would have to be able to grant promotions, alter development of the land around Central, give assignments. It had to be Michael."

Dean sucked in a breath, but Cas beat him to it.

"Michael's dead now."

"I figured it was Michael doing it, but I never understood why. But he had one of us working with him. It wasn't just humans he was messing with any more. I started following him whenever I could, however I could. Had to stay out of his sight, stay unnoticed, so it took me awhile. Everything else could be explained, above the board, normal except for that mountain. He didn't go back that often, but often enough for me to find it. Took me years to figure out how to even get inside. One time I did and I didn't make it ten feet before I had to skedaddle. Couldn't risk getting caught out like that in Michael's home base."

"Why did you not tell me any of this?" Kali asked quietly.

Azazel laughed and grinned at his sister. "I was going up against angels, kid. And not just any angel. The big honcho. One word from him and we've got all the winged ass-monkeys on our tails. Would any of you have touched that with a ten-foot pole?"

Kali stiffened and Crowley gave a little hum of understanding. Neither of them said anything in their defense. Of course. They were demons after all. They may be getting all chummy now, but they weren't their friends, even if they hung around Gabriel some of the time. Did Azazel even know about Gabriel?

"Then why're you coming to us with this now?" Bobby's voice asked through the speakerphone.

"Because," Azazel turned to the phone on the table. "My little sister got herself involved. And apparently two of my other numbnut siblings decided to join in the madness too."

"Hey," Crowley interjected. "Until Kali here dragged me back today, I was far in left field on this one."

"Yes, thank you for bringing him here as well," Azazel said to Kali who lifted an eyebrow like she was saying, 'Well, duh' or whatever that would be in pretentious demon-speak.

"We're all going to have a nice long talk later about what you and Bela have been up to for the past couple of decades," Azazel warned and Crowley actually looked nervous.

"You all some fucked-up family or something?" Ash asked, squinting between the three demons. "Cause I don't see the resemblance."

"We are siblings," Kali said stiffly.

Dean frankly didn't give a shit what they looked like. They were demons. They came in every shape and color that people did and it wasn't like they got married and made little baby demons. There was something else bothering him though, something that Azazel had brushed past like he didn't want to talk about it.

"You said it was one of you recognized the work of one of your siblings."

The demons all turned to look at him simultaneously and if that wasn't creepy then he didn't know what was. Cas was staring at him too. The angel had been scrutinizing the demons before, but now he had big sad eyes on Dean that he could just make out in his peripheral vision.

Dean almost snapped out a "What?" but he didn't want to start something when he was going to get an answer out of Azazel. His stomach clenched as the demon opened his mouth.

"It was Alistair," Azazel said woodenly and Dean stopped breathing for a moment.

"You mean the demon who..." Sam choked to a stop, all the blood draining from his face. "Excuse me," he managed before he sprinted to the bathroom and Dean could hear the sound of retching.

"That bastard had died too fast," he snarled. After it had happened, he had just been relieved, relieved that he was gone, that he couldn't hurt them anymore. He had been so damned thankful that Sam was safe, that Cas was safe, that he hadn't given much thought to what he'd done. But now, now he wished that he had taken his time. That he had made Alistair live through every single broken bone in reverse. He clenched his fists to stop the shaking in his arms. How long had he been fucking over their lives? Mom. Dad. Sam. If there was a Winchester curse, it was laid by that rotting demon that was nothing but a smear on the ground now.

"Dean!" Cas yelled. "You have to stop this." Nails dug into the meat of his shoulder and he realized Cas was on the ground, bits of plaster in his hair. The shaking wasn't just him, then, it was the entire apartment. Hell, it might even be the entire building.

The demons were gone. Fuck. And Sam was still in the bathroom. He'd thought he had been alright. He seemed like he had been dealing with it, but Dean had been so wrapped up in his own head that he hadn't noticed. No one could just be fine after something like that. His skin had stitched back together, his ear grown back, his bones mended, but memories couldn't be healed like that. Dean should have known.

"Sam?" he asked as he knocked on the door.

A quavery, "Yea," let him know his brother wasn't catatonic at least.

"I'm coming in," he warned without bothering to ask for permission. "You better be decent."

Sam was sitting in the big white tub, face in his hands. Which was a hell of a lot better than curled up on the floor. Kind of ironic that Dean would turn out to be the pussy between the two of them.

"You got a little something there," Dean opened with, gesturing at Sam's hair.

"What?" His brother pawed at his bangs and grimaced when his hand came away wet. Under any other circumstance, Dean would be making quips about holding his hair and ponytails, but he's pretty sure his brain is only coming up with this to keep him from freaking out and ending in the tub with Sam.

It almost hurt him to say it, but this was Sam, and while Dean dealt with his problems by destroying things, usually a toss up between a monster and his liver, Sam liked to share and emote. "You wanna talk about it?"

Sam didn't look at him. "Do you?"

"I'd rather eat your socks," Dean smirked, but sobered when that didn't even draw a smile out of his brother. "Look, just, I'm sorry."

Sam finally looked up, frowning at Dean. "What?"

"I never should have let you come. I knew that something like this could happen. I was so fucking stupid."

"Dean, you didn't let me do anything. There's no way you could have known that you'd find..." Sam ground his teeth together. "This isn't your fault."

"He did this because of me. Because he was trying to get me to turn and I couldn't." Dean squeezed his eyes shut, but that only drew the image of his brother hanging limp from Alistair's grasp on the back of his eyelids.

Sam snorted. "I can't believe you're making this about you."

Dean looked up at him, bewildered. "I'm trying to apologize here."

"Yea, and you have nothing to apologize for. This," Sam gestured at the tub, "has got nothing to do with you except maybe for the fact that you were there, that you had to watch it all. I'm the one who decided to barge in after you. I'm the one who broke with the plan. This one is on me."

"No it's not," Dean snapped back.

"Just stop it, Dean! You have your issues, stop trying to take mine, too."

Dean was stunned. "Do you want issues or something?"

Sam stared back at him, as if just realizing what he'd said. "I... no, but. I can't just pretend that its not my own fault. And I don't want you to feel sorry about what happened to me. It's not your fault. And," Sam swallowed. "I saw what you two looked like when I got there. I mean, Cas was just, I couldn't even tell he was a person there. I got smacked around a bit, and then the ear thing, but he just looked like meat and feathers, Dean. I almost puked when I realized it was Castiel. And you." His head snapped up, taking Dean in like he was reassuring himself that it was over. "You were covered in blood and your face was so swollen."

Dean looked away. The last thing that he wanted for his brother to feel sorry for him. Sam's blame, he could take, but not his pity. Pity would mean that Sam couldn't trust him anymore, that Sam didn't think he could be counted on.

"Yea, well, it was mostly gauze and the blood was mostly Cas'." Saying it hit him in the gut like a cannonball. For some reason he felt angry at Cas, like getting hacked up by a psychopath was his fault. And he knew that made no sense, but that was why he hated talking about all the feelings crap. They were so damned confusing.

Sam didn't answer him though Dean could tell he was itching to say something.

"Say it before your head explodes and we're stuck cleaning all that brain from Balthazar's ceiling tiles."

His brother looked up, but the sullen look didn't leave his face. "Alistair killed mom."

Dean sighed and moved to sit on the bathtub rim. The wings shifted forward, almost shoving themselves into his lap. "Yea," he said, though his throat suddenly felt tight and his tongue felt dry.

"Do you think that, I don't know, he was following us all these years? I mean, what are the chances of that, a demon from twenty years ago showing up again to, what, finish the job? What if all those years ago he wasn't going for mom? What if it was us all along?"

Dean's chest constricted and the air around him froze. He couldn't breath. All that came out of his mouth was a choked wheeze.

"Dean?" Sam yelled, but he was so far away that it all Dean could hear was an echo. "Crap. Hey, Dean. Dean!"

He was moving. No, someone was moving him.

"Sam, Dean. Zachariah has woken up."

It hurt. He didn't know what. Something inside of him. It hurt bad.

"Shit, Cas. Not a good time."

"What's going on? Dean? What happened?"

It felt like something was trying to crush him, or that he was trying to crush something, something pointy and jagged that was going to rip through him.

"This happens sometimes. When we were little, and someone would ask him about what happened that night he would freak out. Not like this, though. He's never just, frozen before."

It was the wings, except they were wrapped around him, not the other way around. How could he be crushing them? How could he make it stop?

"How did you get him to stop?"

"I don't know. Usually I just had to get his attention from whatever was happening in his head, but it's like he's not even here right now."

He needed it to stop.

"I will try something. Hold on."


	36. Per Scribed

Sam was wrong, though he couldn't possibly remember. Castiel had seen Dean unresponsive only once before, a long time ago, in one of the worst situations possible.

The fire had engulfed nearly the entire house by the time that Castiel had made his way into the Winchester household. It must have taken half an hour for the conflagration to reach such a state, and yet Dean and Sam were still trapped in the nursery, unmoving but still alive.

If Castiel had learned anything from befriending Dean, it was that humans felt and reacted more vividly than he or Rachel or even Gabriel. When Dean fell from the tree, he had screamed and cried. Sam would be reduced to uncontrollable bawling by the tiniest of movement. Yet when he came upon Dean, flames licking up the back of his shirt, his friend was completely motionless. Dean stared blankly at the wall, eyes open and mouth shut. His little nostrils flared with each heavy breath, and though the air was clogged with ash, the boy did not cough once.

"Dean?" Cas asked, terrified at the lack of response in the lively child. "Dean! You have to get out of here!" The angel reached out and shook his friend by the shoulder, but got no response. Sam was faring only slightly better, wrapped up in the fire blanket and held low to the ground. The fire finally caught the trailing edge of Dean's pajamas and lit up his side. Castiel could hear his skin crackling, and still Dean did nothing.

"Come on, Dean!" Castiel cried desperately, tugging on the human's arm, succeeding only in tumbling all three of them over, the baby still clutched in Dean's arms. Castiel thought frantically of what he could do. He was nowhere near strong enough to fly all three of them out, and he had no time to go search for Rachel or Gabriel for help. Even as he desperately beat back the fire with his own hands, Dean's lungs finally succumbed to the smoke inhalation and his body shuddered. Castiel saw that bright, beautiful soul flicker and dissipate, flaking out into the air and he grasped at it desperately. It wasn't too late. It couldn't be. He gathered as much of it as he could and shoved it back in with his Grace, pushing and pushing until the pieces of soul coalesced inside him once more, pinned in place. There was an all-pervading sense of wrong that hung about Castiel like a dark cloud on a still day. Dean's body would not sustain life as it was. He chased after that darkness and ushered it away. He wasn't sure what he was doing. Only that he must knit together the skin and flesh, cleanse the lungs, push away that shadow of death.

But even as Dean's heart stuttered back to life, Castiel could not shake the sense that the ground was about to fall from beneath his feet. As the apprehension blossomed into pain, he realized that the feeling of wrong was not from Dean's fire-wracked body, but from himself. Somewhere he had made a mistake. He had torn a piece of himself away and it was being subsumed by Dean's soul. The point of contact between his palm and Dean's shoulder seared hotter than any fire and Castiel jerked away. He fled, away from the blinding pain, away from the overwhelming sense of being devoured. Thus began his lost year.

And now Dean was back, and Castiel could no longer see what was wrong with him. Even if his soul were to be ebbing away at this very moment, he would have no way of telling until his breathing stopped and his skin grew cold. He had to do something though, even if it meant going in blind, deaf, and dumb. And he was not going to panic and freak out. If he could only get through to the Grace inside Dean, it may wake him up, just as it had once before. Castiel did not waste time explaining to Sam, though the boy was panicked and pale. He simply reached up into the blanketing feathers of their wings and pulled, hoping to his Father that his Grace would recognize his intent and give him the jolt he needed.

Dean's entire body spasmed as he curled up, a silent scream of pain twisting up his face.

"Stop!" Dean gasped and swiped blindly at Cas' arms. "What the hell was that?"

"You were unresponsive," Castiel explained. He wished he had a similarly easy answer to Dean's attack.

The hunter groaned and used Castiel's shoulder to haul himself upright. "Yea well did you have to go all Vulcan death grip on me?" he joked weakly. "Son of a bitch was like getting kicked in the balls on repeat. Jesus, Cas."

"It would not affect you so much if you didn't insist on manifesting the wings so viscerally," Castiel grumbled, jutting out his chin in what even he recognized as a rather childish defense.

"What, now?"

Before Castiel could answer, Sam reached out and patted his brother down. It was an action more suited for checking broken bones than recovery from whatever his brother had suffered, but the relief on Sam's face was the same nonetheless.

"You're okay now?" Sam asked, anxious.

"Yea, get your giant Samsquatch paws off me," Dean scowled, but then dragged both his brother and Castiel into a loose headlock. His first reaction was to go stiff, stunned that Dean would attack him in such a way. Should he retaliate? Should he call for help? But then Sam was laughing and reaching over to jab his brother in the ribs, prompting his brother to release Castiel and slap at his brother's hands.

Castiel backed up against the wall, tucking his hands together to stop the impulse to reach out and join in. He wasn't sure if he were permitted yet. A confusing tangle of glee and horror engulfed his chest. Angels would never engage in these antics. If he attempted to squeeze his arms around Balthazar's, he may end up without said arms. But it was strangely intimate and affectionate and Castiel found himself wanting to repeat the experience.

"What was this about Zachariah?"

Castiel snapped out of his reverie and looked back at the brother who were slightly breathless and red in the face.

"Oh yes," Castiel rushed out the door, Winchesters on his heels. "He has awoken and has agreed to speak with us on what he knows."

"Great," Dean muttered, but he didn't hesitate to follow Castiel into the den.

Zachariah looked even older now. Castiel could not help but see his own mortality in those clouded grey eyes and sunken cheeks.

"Zachariah?" he asked and the vessel coughed in response.

"Castiel." His voice was raspy, but still strong and tainted with a bite of acid. "You killed Michael and let Lucifer get away." His laugh was broken and cold. "I didn't even realize it until Azazel told me. I always thought I'd know if anything happened to Michael, but there was nothing. I didn't feel anything."

Zachariah blinked dully up at the ceiling. "And you let Lucifer live. Tell me. How do you kill the tamer and let the lion go free?"

Castiel sat down in the heavy chair set by the makeshift bed. "Lucifer wasn't there." He could see Dean shuffling in the corner of his vision.

"I find that hard to believe," Zachariah sniped and coughed weakly.

"Will you still help us?" Castiel had not considered the effect of Michael's death on his creation. They were more than that, though. They were almost family, though Michael treated Zachariah rather like a lamed racing horse.

The old man heaved a sigh and shifted to look at them all with a grimace. "However you all messed this up, Lucifer must still be stopped."

"Tell us," Castiel insisted.

"I was Michael's protege, like Meg is Lucifer's. They are brothers." Zachariah furrowed his brow. "Were brothers. But more than that they were mirrors of each other. I don't know who was older, though I presume it was Lucifer since he inherited that facility. Michael had Central and all the stations around the world, but I think a part of him always thought of Vesuvius as home."

Castiel couldn't imagine a young Michael running through the stainless steel corridors embedded inside a volcano. The Director must have been a fledgling once, but he didn't seem to have any traces of childhood left inside of him. Even Gabriel had his love of sweets and Rachel her fondness for flowers. Sam and Dean had acted like eager children when happy. His own markers were more subtle, perhaps. He did not run screaming through the fields, but being in Michael's presence had always made him feel like a fledgling.

"I had only been there once before, when I was born. Or I suppose I should say, when I was created. I stayed there for a few years before I was moved to Michael's apartment at Central. I don't remember much, but I do remember Lucifer. Lucifer had been curious about me, very curious, for the first few years, but his interest waned. Michael wouldn't let him touch me. I know Lucifer wanted to do things to me. Abominable things." Zachariah shuddered.

"What kind of things?"

Zachariah looked at him with wide eyes and clenched jaw. "Like what he did to Meg. Meg isn't like the other demons." A cold hand reached out and clenched in Castiel's t-shirt. It would have dragged him forward if the vessel weren't so weak.

"You must destroy her, Castiel. The prophet should have the power now."

Castiel glanced quickly at Dean's white face and tightened fists before turning back to Zachariah.

"How? What is she?"

"She's a demon like you've never seen before, because she isn't a demon, not truly. She is more akin to the nephilim than to Lucifer's other creations. She is the corruption of humanity, the purity of Grace and the darkness of Hell melded together in one vessel. Michael has torn the angel from her, but she is still more powerful than her parts combined. And she wants for Grace." Zachariah stared up at him with wide eyes for a moment longer before slumping back against the cushions, his hand untangling from Castiel's shirt and falling limply to his side.

"Lucifer has taken another angel. He doesn't intend for her to go to Meg, not if he left her behind. I am afraid that he will try again. He has lost Alistair." Zachariah's breathing slowed and his eyes fluttered shut.

"Zachariah?" Castiel laid his hand on the bony shoulder and the vessel startled back awake, looking around bemused for a few moments before coming back to his senses.

"He has lost Alistair, destroyed Lilith, and abandoned Meg. He will need another one."

"Another what? Another demon?" Castiel urged, but Zachariah was asleep once more. He adjusted the IV, making sure it hadn't dislodged when he had grabbed him, and considered trying to wake him again.

"Another nephil," a quiet voice cut in. Bela had returned when he was not looking and had settled at the back of the room, listening. "I had wondered where Lilith had gone. I had assumed she'd found another family to play with, but its been nearly a month since I last heard of her. She usually tires of them after a week. Wasteful, really." For all her flippant words, Bela looked sad.

"Who's Lilith?" Sam asked first.

"My sister."

"Our sister." Crowley rolled his eyes as he appeared in the room, lounging in the dusty armchair in the corner. He wrinkled his nose and brushed delicately at his sleeves.

"You were listening," Castiel pointed out, though he wasn't surprised.

"Of course," Crowley scoffed and crossed one leg over the other. "This is personal now. Alice was always a little unstable, what with all the psychopathic rage, but we let him play his little games as long as it didn't interfere with our lives. I found it passing strange that he hadn't made the news in the last couple decades. It makes sense that he found a powerful employer. A clever employer at that."

"Who? You mean Lucifer?" Dean didn't look impressed by Lucifer's cleverness.

"Oh yes. Impressive really. I'm surprised I hadn't noticed before, but then again I wasn't looking. I don't know if it was lucky coincidence or deliberate planning that his activities never touched on mine."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"A mine collapsed in Bolivia. A factory fire in Vietnam. A plane crash in Iceland." Crowley's voice grew louder with each incident named, angry yet strangely impressed by the look in his eye. "Ironic really. Alistair is so painfully obvious in person. Likes to leave scars, mark his work, stake a claim. But en masse? Subtle. Entirely plausible as accidents unless you deliberately consider how they might not be. Little brother has grown smarter," he muttered.

Silence reigned as each of them reeled from Crowley's tirade. Bela's eyes welled with tears. Dean and Sam were confused, much as Castiel was, their heads bent in thought, mulling over all the information that was being thrown at them.

Not only had Alistair arranged the house fire that had harmed Dean twenty years ago, Crowley believed him behind a series of accidents from around the world, seemingly unrelated.

"How do you know this?" Castiel asked, wanted to ascertain the information before he assimilated it into that the web being woven in his mind.

"I found the sadistic bastard," Crowley muttered, rubbing his forehead with his hand. "He got himself killed in each of the accidents and no one would be so bored as to try to connect a bunch of corpses made years apart all over the world in a bunch of accidents as the same man. Gil Rados in Bolivia, hired a week before the collapse, Richard Chase, a lost tourist in Vietnam, Vova Tsepe on the plane crash. Baby brother always had a penchant for twisted serial killers."

"But why?" Castiel muttered, still finding no sense in the killings.

"Did you miss the part where I said he was a psychopath?" Crowley sighed.

"Hold on," Sam said, looking between Bela and Crowley. "Zachariah, he called them nephilim. Like, half-angel, half-human giants nephilim."

"Get to your point, Moose."

"You're nephilim."

"Ten points to Team Plaid." Crowley started a slow clap. "You figured that out a lot quicker than I'd thought. I never expected the old windbag to spill the proverbial beans, though."

"You're not half angel," Castiel said, sounding a lot angrier than he felt.

"No of course not." Crowley clasped his hands together. "You're an angel, or used to be before you lost all your feathers, Feathers. You know that half that book is on a level just above horse shit. Imagine yourself a man, unavailed to the miracles of modern plumbing and personal hygiene."

"Hurry up," Castiel snapped, surprising the demon and himself. He had never felt himself to be impatient before.

"You see a man like me," Crowley continues with a smirk, "That's not from heaven, not from hell, and certainly not from earth. Some enterprising orator decides, well, this creature must be some sort of hybrid then. And so he tells people who tells people and blah blah blah you get the legend of the nephilim."

"Then where are you from?" Sam asked.

"Well my mama was a tailor and my daddy was a gambling man. I wouldn't wear blue jeans though. Distasteful." Crowley grimaced at Sam's legwear.

"I don't understand."

"It's a song, Cas," Dean explained before turning back to the dem- no- nephilim. "So what? You're some twisted mutation of a human?"

"Not exactly. My daddy was more of a holy man and my mama was more an angel."

"So the stories are true?" Dean scowled, throwing his hands up.

Except that wasn't possible. Angels could not have children. With no reproductive imperative, their bodies did not perform the necessary functions to produce offspring. Eggs were never and sperm never produced, just like their bodies did not breathe or eat or defecate.

"Incorrect," Crowley sang out. "Tweedledee, you want to give it a shot?"

Sam bowed his head in thought, tapping his chin with his fingers twice before his eyes widened. "Your dad, the holy man, he was a prophet wasn't he? And the angel wasn't your mother, it was the angel that Bonded with him. Like Cas did with Dean."

"Whoa what now?" Dean looked worriedly back at him as if expecting Castiel to suddenly spewing forth nephilim. Castiel scowled back.

"They made you," Sam deduced excitedly. "Like a golem or a-"

"Stop right there Tweedledee," Crowley held up a hand. "We are nothing like a golem or a whatever you were going to say there. We are not made of clay nor are we lumbering oafs. But you got one part right. The old man was, indeed, a prophet. He created us. A new race, new beings, new souls. "

"That's not possible," Castiel blurted out as soon as the words came from Crowley's mouth. "Only God has that power."

"What was that, Feathers?" Crowley cocked an ear at him. "I find it difficult to understand what you're saying. I am sitting here in front of you aren't I?"

"You must have come from something. Corrupted souls or something darker," Castiel insisted, irritated at the demon's blasphemy.

"Haven't you heard the stories? Parting the red sea. Water to wine. Lots of liquids turning red, come to think of it." Crowley considered this for a moment before returning to his point. "Prophets can crush the laws of the universe as if they were nothing more than a puny little gnat."

"That's all change!" Castiel grabbed the closest thing to him, a book lying on the floor. A page opened before it and he handily grabbed and tore it in half. "We have the power to alter. We can not destroy. We can not create. You are lying."

"Do I look like any human soul to you? And if I suggest I might be some sort of angel Grace you'll probably throw a hissy fit. And I'm not like a demon either, am I? Oh wait, you can't tell any more." Crowley stood up and threw his arms wide. "Come on, Tweedledum. Tell me what you see."

"A smarmy little dick," Dean snarled, wings flaring slightly behind him.

"Yes, it's strange, isn't it?" Crowley asked, tugging down on his suit jacket. "My father could pull nephilim out of thin air but this little prophet can't even look inside a meat suit. What's your defect, now?"

"I'll tell you what my-"

"Whoa!" Sam and Cas rushed forward and held Dean back, one hand on each shoulder.

"Hurting him won't solve anything," Castiel muttered even though he had to fight himself from taking a swing at the demon himself. He hadn't yet had a chance to test his new physical limitations.

"It'll make me feel better," Dean mumbled back, but he settled back on his heels, arms crossed petulantly across his chest.

"Yes, well," Crowley sighed. "I suppose it actually is all about you, isn't it? Or it was. I don't think our friend Lucifer has the same interests as his brother. Well, if you excuse me." The nephilim brushed some lint of his jacket and nodded at Bela. "Shall we?"

"Where are you going?" Dean demanded.

"Didn't you hear? The big bad wolf is looking to build himself a juicy little morsel and he's going to need another nephilim. If it's all the same to you, I'd rather he not find one."

"What about Raphael's scrolls?" Castiel asked desperately before Bela could leave.

"Don't worry, sweet cheeks." Castiel jerked away as a single red nail tapped against his chin. She seemed far less intimidating than Kali, yet she made him feel ten times as uncomfortable. "The mullet has the images on a flash drive."

"What can I say?" she shrugged and tucked a hand into the crook of Crowley's arm. "I work fast."


	37. Chapter 37

Balthazar didn't show up again for a couple hours and Dean didn't blame him. His apartment was a depressing place. Uriel had collected Jo, apparently on orders from Ellen. He wasn't sure if it was her status as Commissioner or the fact that Ellen could be terrifying that had the angel doing her bidding. Whatever it was, Dean was thankful. The only thing that was keeping the angel from telling everyone where they were seemed to be his loyalty to the Harvelles. It left just four of them plus the babies. Ash had passed out again since any time before two pm registered as time to sleep for him, so it was just Dean, Sam, and Cas toiling away in the living room.

Cas was angry about something. He kept looking up suddenly, eyes narrowed and muttering, "He's lying," with such conviction that even Dean was starting to think so.

From the amount of translating Cas got done, which was practically none judging by the blank pages of notes held in his hands, the angel wasn't really focusing on the Raphael tablet. Dean would help except, well, Arabic just looked like squiggly lines to him, ocean waves drawn by a three year old Sammy.

There was only one tablet in that giant vase after all. The rest of the space had been nothing but wax. Lucky for them, he supposed, since that meant Bela got them the text with just two x-rays. Of course, it also dampened all their hopes that it might actually contain something useful.

Even Sam was all droopy after a phone call back to Jess. Being on the lam working on crazy conspiracy theories for your suspected-murderer brother probably put a damper on a relationship. At least she hadn't turned them in yet. Maybe they'd work out after all. Dean'd never forgive himself if this turned out to be the reason why Sam lost the love of his life.

"Maybe you should go back, just for a week or two," he said and almost regretted bringing it up when Sam gave him a look of utter betrayal and furious anger. Almost. "You could talk to your professors, maybe salvage the semester."

"I've been gone for almost a month, Dean. And yea, sometimes they'll make an exception but only when you have a good reason. This," he gestured at the room at large, "is not something I can just explain."

Dean winced. He knew it wasn't his best idea, but he couldn't help pressing. "You could make something up. And you could see Jess again, you know, smooth things over?"

"She was questioned by the police, Dean," Sam hissed. They broke into her apartment and went through her stuff trying to find me."

"Wait what? They don't think she had anything to do with this, do they?" Dean dropped his book to the table with an angry thud. It was bad enough that Sam had gotten sucked in but he'd never even met Jess in person before.

"They don't, but they think that I might and she's my girlfriend. She had to buy a burner phone just to talk to me. A burner phone. She's never even stolen from the candy bins at the grocery stores. She doesn't even like to jaywalk and she's buying burner phones and lying to the police. It's just, this isn't what I wanted for her."

"Yea," Dean said drily, swallowing a hard lump in his throat. "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." Sam threw his hands up and glared at the coffee table, kicking it lightly with his heel. "I'm just frustrated. I just thought we would have something by now. You know, when Bela showed up to help I thought, 'It's almost over,' but they didn't know what was going on either, not everything at least. And just keeps getting deeper and deeper and I'm scared of hitting the bottom now because what if we don't like what's there?"

Dean stayed quiet because he couldn't offer anything to comfort his brother or calm him down. He wasn't sure what the point of all this was anymore. If this was a bottomless pit leading straight to hell, he didn't know why they were still digging. Maybe it would just be best if he just turned himself in. Michael was gone now, and so what if they arrested him? Worst comes to worst, they'd slap a life sentence on him and study him like an insect. A human sporting wings. Fascinating. Everyone else would be able to get back to their lives. And hell, if they could convince the rest of the angels that they hadn't gone batshit insane, they might even get some help on this Lucifer thing.

"I'm going to go for a walk," he muttered and stood, stretching his arms behind his back and cracking his neck, more out of force of habit than any lingering stiffness. He'd jacked one of Balthazar's coats and cut two slits up the back to accommodate the wings so he could pass as a proper angel now. Anyone looking for Dean Winchester would be looking for a human, thought he wasn't so sure he wanted to avoid getting caught now.

No one tried to stop him as he trudged down the stairs to the street level. The street was fairly quiet, a few men and women rushing back and forth during their lunch hour. A tiny cafe tucked in the armpit of building had a couple teenagers sitting out front who didn't pay Dean any mind. Kids these days, Dean snorted, feeling old. Didn't even register an angel walking around in torn clothing.

"What are you doing?" a familiar deep voice called from just behind his shoulder. Dean steeled himself with a deep breath before turning around to face his stalker. A hoodie that looked like it'd been spat out of the deepest dregs of Gabriel's closet was wrapped around Cas, nearly engulfing his smaller figure. The drawstring was pulled tight so all Dean could make out was a pair of pink lips on a strong jaw, but it was still undeniably Castiel.

"Going for a walk." Dean kept his voice carefully light.

Cas wasn't buying it though. His lower jaw jutted out as he stepped close to mutter in Dean's ear. "You are a wanted fugitive. Your face is plastered over every media outlet accessible by Central, which is, save for a few independently owned television stations and websites, all of them. I do not know what your purpose is in endangering everyone like this. You are two blocks away from Balthazar's residence. Should you be captured, it is a very short leap to determine where you have been hiding for the past few days. Anyone who did not manage to escape would be taken into custody for impeding an official investigation. Those who did would be trapped in France. So tell me what you are doing, or return to the apartment."

The words were quiet and commanding and when Dean leaned back to look Cas in the face, the man did not blink once, just quietly stared him down. It was weird, really, that he seemed more intimidating drowning in an oversized sweatshirt than with a pair of looming wings. Luckily, Dean liked a little fight.

"You know," Dean murmured back, trying to match the deepness of Castiel's voice. "You look really suspicious dressed like that." He quirked an eyebrow at the angel as he stilled and seemed to consider the comment for a moment. Two hands, entirely enveloped by bright green fabric save the tips of the fingers, tugged at the edges of the hood until the edges had smoothed out and Dean could make out Castiel's squinty eyes. Dean grinned and the outright hostile look melted into something a little more unsure.

"Is this better?"

"Yea."

Castiel nodded sharply and led Dean away with a hand on his arm. "This was reckless. What were you thinking?"

Dean shook his head though Cas probably couldn't see it. "I wasn't. I just.." He'd just wanted an easy fix, a magic button, and he knew he wasn't going to find it in that apartment. "Needed some air," he finished lamely.

He had no expectations that Castiel would accept that as an explanation, but the angel surprised him.

"Okay," Cas said, not looking back as they wound their way back around the corner.

Dean had resigned himself back to the drudgery of research when a tinny voice echoed from behind them.

"Arrete!"

He didn't think much of it until Cas' grip on his wrist tightened and the angel turned to look behind them, face pale. Two policemen hid behind the open doors of their car. One of them was speaking into the microphone in the car while the other muttered into the receiver at his shoulder.

"Mettez vos mains en l'air et se tourner lentement!" the first officer yelled through the speaker.

Dean surged forward, grabbing the wrist of the hand Cas' had wrapped around his arm and tugging him forward. The words meant nothing to him. He'd taken some Spanish in college but he could just about manage to ask where the bathroom was. That didn't mean that Dean didn't know exactly what they wanted.

Cas flailed behind him, legs flying in a haphazard jumble of limbs like a kid just gone through his growth spurt. They had to get off the street. It was narrow but straight and there was no way they were losing the police running along the sidewalk. An alley, if it could be called that, opened up to their right and Dean jerked the two of them into the tight space. He could feel the tips of his wings brush against the adjacent buildings with each step, but he didn't have time to worry about that now. As tiny as the alley was, someone had still managed to install a sort of fire escape up the side of one building, just a rusty ladder that Dean wouldn't trust under normal circumstances but they were out of options.

"Come on." He laced his fingers together and got down on one knee.

"We're going up there?"

"Well do you see any other options?" Dean hissed, eyes fixed on the end of the alley. The police would probably call for back-up and if they actually sent an angel to get the, they were screwed. Cas' foot landed squarely in his hands as the angel reached up towards the bottom of the ladder and Dean lifted him easily before jumping up himself. Hand over hand, he climbed after Cas until they reached the edge of the sloped roof.

This might not have been the best plan. They were completely exposed up here, though the building was large enough that they couldn't be seen from street level.

"Get down," Dean yelled as Cas stood up shakily. The tiles were rough, so Cas probably wouldn't slip off, but it was still a good forty degree angle up here and he didn't have wings anymore.

"I won't fall," Cas called back, turning his body slowly to look around them. The buildings were nearly identical, same height, same shape, same steepled roofs. Paris was not built for rooftop chase scenes. Best they could hope for was that no one would notice them up here and they'd give up the search or move far enough away for them to get back to Balthazars. First thing Dean would do when he got back was get himself a damned phone.

"Get down, you idiot! We're four stories up!" Dean yelled again, plastering himself closer to the roof. All he could think about was that if a strong wind came and caught the stupid feathery sails on his back or his hands started sweating then he was done. He could practically feel himself tipping backwards and had to fight the irrational urge to get up.

"You have to fly us out of here," Cas said, edging down the roof to crouch by Dean's hand, nearly stepping on his hand.

"No," Dean said before the words fully registered. When they did, he followed it up with an emphatic, "Hell no!"

"We can't stay here," Cas argued. "And we can't go back to the street."

The blare of sirens passing by below cut through the blood rushing through Dean's ears and he closed his eyes, trying to refocus on something other than his constant litany of "Don't fall. Don't fall. Don't fall."

"Dean!" Cas yelled again and Dean's nearly had a heart attack when the angel pushed at his hand.

"Yea, yea, I'm thinking!" he growled out, trying to melt further against the roofing tiles. The sirens receded into the distance and some of the tension seeped out of Dean. They were two blocks away from Balthazar's place, but that wasn't much of an option right now. The police would just follow them right back, and Cas was right. Law enforcement didn't necessarily attract the Einsteins and Maxwells, but someone was going to figure out that Balthazar was the one hiding them now that they knew they were in Paris.

Sure, he could still let himself get caught. It wouldn't be hard, though they'd probably have to airlift him into custody since there was no way he was climbing back down that ladder. Why was it always so much easier getting into these stupid situations? Everyone else though, he couldn't drag them down with them. The plan had expanded past "get away from the police" to "get away from the police and warn everyone."

"Dean," Cas said again and Dean shushed him immediately. He already knew the angel's suggestion. "Dean, there's a helicopter coming."

His head shot up. Cas was perched near the steeple of the roof, dark head poking up above the apex. Dean couldn't see the helicopter from where he was near the bottom edge, but Cas didn't really make things up, and this would be a hell of a time for him to start.

The angel slipped down, crab-crawling on all floors to lie next to Dean facing the sky. "Two helicopters each carrying a tactical team," he recited dully. "A tactical team is composed of six members armed with SIG Pro SP 2022 semi-automatic pistols, Smith and Wesson 686 revolvers, SSG551 commando assault rifles, and Blaser LRS2 sniper rifles. We should be thankful that we are not in the United States or the SWAT teams would be armed with submachine guns as well, although they do have minimized overpenetration so there would be a smaller risk of innocent bystanders being hit by a bullet that passed through one of us."

Cas' voice was calm and steady, but rose higher and higher with each word until it was merely a squeak at the end. The ratcheting thrum of helicopter blades grew louder. They probably had another ten minutes before they were spotted. Maybe someone had already seen them climbing up onto the roof, or Cas' head poking out from the steeple. Five minutes then.

"You have to fly us out of here," Cas said again, his clammy hand grabbing onto Dean's. There wasn't anything special about the touch, just a gross, sweaty palm clenched around the back of his hand. Dean was never going to get used to seeing Cas scared. The image he saw burned into his eyelids was still the stoic stillness the angel had exhibited even as Alistair ripped into his back. But this was twice now in two days, and it still made something inside Dean jump in horror.

"Hey," Dean snapped, turning his hand around to fumble their fingers together. "It's going to be okay. We'll get out of this."

Castiel nodded back at him frantically, eyes wide and blue, his pupils little more than pinpricks in the daylight. "You have to fly," Cas said again, like it was a prayer to keep him safe in troubled times.

Dean glanced behind them at the steep drop back down to the road. Okay, so he had wings, but they were heavy as fuck. And with two men? He didn't need that semester in fluid dynamics to know that there was no way in hell they wouldn't end up as scrambled guts on the pavement.

"You have to teach me angel magic," he said, squeezing Cas' hand in an attempt to keep him grounded. At any other time, he probably would have gotten some pissy answer about how it wasn't magic. That it was some form of metaphysics packaged as God's great celestial gift, but Cas just stared at him, bewildered.

"You don't see it?"

"What?" Dean looked around and all he could see was the rapidly growing specks that were the incoming helicopters.

"All around you, the subspace. The aether."

"You gotta help me out here, cause the only thing I see all around is air and I don't even really see that."

"You just have to go into it!" Cas growled, squeezing Dean's hand so hard that he must think he could force the knowledge into him through osmosis.

"Not helpful, Cas!" The copters were close enough now that Dean could make out the blue and white markings.

"It should come naturally! Its not something you have to think about. Just look for the edges of the world and slip between them."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Cas scrambled onto his feet, hand still clutched firmly around Dean's, dragging his arm up with him. "Close your eyes," Cas commanded. "Open your wings."

There wasn't much Dean could do other than give it a try. He didn't expect there to be any edges or dimensions, but it was better than lying here like a slug. This was the first time he'd deliberately attempted to move the wings. They were a fancy cape that moved when he moved, so he first tried flexing his back. He could feel them twitch. Foreign muscles twinged against his borrowed jacket, a little itchy, a little tingly. Suddenly, the warm weight against his back disappeared as the wings lifted into the air.

"Holy shit," he said as his eyes snapped open so he could look at the feathers over his shoulder. They stood like two flags or banners carried around by medieval knights to show their colors. Sir Dean Winchester of house Please Let This Work.

"Try to feel with them, see if you can find anything beyond the physical."

Dean closed his eyes again. He felt. Wind. Lots and lots of wind. Because helicopter blades stirred up a fuck ton of wind and he had two sails protruding from his back.

"Shit!" he yelled as he felt his body being lifted from the roof. Cas had both hands on him now and was leaning so far back that he might as well have been lying down.

Cas' mouth moved, wide open and screaming, but all Dean could make out was "Down!"

"How?" he screamed back.

The wind got stronger as the second helicopter got into range. He could hear Cas screaming his name and someone yelling in French, but mostly just the quick rabbit beat of his own heart as the two of them were lifted off the roof.

Another hand fisted in the front of his jacket. This was it. Unless the French had developed transporter beams that they were keeping secret, this was how he was going to die. There was so much shit he hadn't finished. Lucifer was still out there with Rachel, creating another monster. Azazel was still wearing those ugly eyes. And he was leaving Sam alone.

When he'd pictured this moment, he'd always assumed he'd die bloody and alone doing something reckless. He got the reckless down, but at least he wasn't bloody yet and unfortunately he wasn't alone. Castiel's arm was solid, his only anchor even though it was falling with him. His other hand, clenched in the front of his coat was slowly ripping away as the fabric tore across his back. And his other hand, on his arm was large, warm, painful and where the hell did Cas get a third hand?

The world yanked away and he saw the edges fold over themselves in a rush. So that's what Cas meant. He knew immediately that he was flying Angel Air and not Demon Delivery because instead of a dark tunnel, he saw everything. The world was exploded through a kaleidoscope and then compressed itself as he rushed past. Looking back he could see Cas, clinging on by one arm, eyes shut and looking like he was going to puke. He tightened his grip. It would be just his luck to get himself a miracle and leave Cas behind.

They weren't heading back to the apartment. The direction was wrong and they'd already flown far further than the two blocks they'd walked. The gold-blond blur of wings in front of him were familiar, but he couldn't make out a body much less a face. Dark cave walls rushed up towards him and he braced himself for impact, but none came. By the time he opened his eyes again, they had stopped inside a dark cavern. A single light shone in front of them, a hundred yards away.

"This way," Balthazar hissed, and waved them forward.

His legs felt like jelly. Cas' hands on his wrist were like claws, digging into his skin. "That was..." he said scratchily. He licked his lips and searched for the right words.

"Lucky. That was lucky." Cas' voice didn't shake even though his hands did. "I can't believe... we were falling and then... how did..."

"I don't know, fuck, I don't know." Dean turned away from the light to look at Castiel's shell-shocked face. His eyes were shut and his teeth were clenched painfully, just breathing.

"Hey." Dean patted one of Cas' hands. "Come on."

For a moment, Castiel's hand unclenched, just to latch onto Dean's other one.

"Yea, okay," Dean sighed. When Sam was little and terrified of the monsters in his closet, and no amount of checking and double-checking could convince him to stop being scared, the only thing that could get him to calm down was a hand on his back and steady nonsense in his ears. It was different doing that for Cas now, especially since he didn't let go of Dean's arms even as he let himself be hugged. Because apparently Cas never learned how to hug. He was a stiff statue, clutching at Dean's elbows, but his breathing evened out and his jaw unclenched enough to brush against Dean's shoulder. Some of Dean's own tension seemed to seep away at the same time.

"My eyes are adjusting," Cas muttered, as if he had to explain away his nerves.

"Still scared of the dark, huh." Dean pulled back and rubbed his wrists.

"Of all the things that people are scared of, I find that the dark is one of the few things that is truly terrifying."

So they were back to full sentences. Good. "Let's see where Balthazar's brought us this time."

It wasn't just Balthazar that was waiting for them under the light. The whole gang was here. Sam, Jo, Ash, Uriel...

"Where're the tater tots?" Dean asked, looking around for a crib or carrier he hadn't seen.

"I left them behind," Uriel answered, glaring. If Dean had thought his voice was big before, it was gigantic now. Forget Morgan Freeman. This was what God probably sounded like.

"What the hell? You left two babies by themselves?" His own voice sounded tinny.

"They are fledglings. They will be unharmed and relocated to a more suitable home."

Dean caught the dirty look Balthazar shot the other angel before saying, "Yes, well a cave isn't the most suitable location for children."

"How'd you find us?" Cas asked, rubbing his arms.

"This is why you can't have nice things, Cassie," Balthazar sighed with a shake of his head. He tossed a phone over to Castiel and Dean peered over his shoulder to get a look. A bright red bulletin announcing the location of the Angel's Most Wanted.

"I hate that picture," Dean muttered. There was an entire slideshow of his face at different angles in different lighting, including, apparently, a joke image he'd taken in college. He had stolen his friend's glasses and was pretending to eat the Lord of the Rings extended edition box set. He forgets why now.

"I think it's a fairly accurate portrayal," Cas mumbled back and Dean couldn't figure out if he was joking or serious. "The lighting is excellent and this would give people an idea of what you'd look like should you adopt glasses as a disguise."

Both.

"Did they make the rest of you?" Dean asked as Cas flipped through the rest of the notices.

"I don't think so. Uriel got us out of there before we even knew something was wrong," Sam answered.

He gave his brother a once over, just to be sure he was okay. It'd been less than an hour and yet it still felt like he hadn't seen him in years. Sam's arms were full of books and stacks of paper. Always trust Sam to save the research. Dean turned to Jo. "Your mom still covering for you and Ash?"

"Yea," she nodded. "She's not happy about it, though. Walker's taken over at Central even though she's fighting for a joint council of all the commissioners. If he finds out she's working with you then..."

"Then she's got a blind shot in hell," Dean sighed. "Okay. You should go back. Ash too."

"Way ahead of you hombre. Can't really work my magic on Stone Age tech." Ash tapped his knuckles against a large rock.  
"I should go as well," Cas chimed in and Dean's head snapped around.

"What." That did not sound like a good idea. Especially after all the trouble they went through not to get caught by the authorities.

"We can't keep hiding. We need resources, mobility, and if half our attention is on running, we might be too late. Michael didn't dare accuse me of having anything to do with the murder. I'm just a witness wanted for questioning. Maybe I can get the charges dropped."

"This is Gordon, you're talking about," Balthazar said, sounding just as unimpressed as Dean felt. Dean had never met Central's operations coordinator, but before this he'd never heard anything particularly bad about him.

"You guys have a history?" Dean prompted.

"Not me," Cas grumbled. "Balthazar does."

"I maintain to this day that I had nothing to do with it. Everything was entirely Pamela's idea."

"Is this something that's going to be a problem?" Dean crossed his arms and glared at him. Another spanner in the works. Why wasn't he surprised?

Balthazar looked worried, chewing on his lip as he took his phone back from Castiel. "I don't think so. His issue is really with Pamela, and me only because I know. Castiel shouldn't offer any particular provocation. But Walker is not a good man. Ruthless, yes. Efficient, yes, but I don't expect him to show Castiel any mercies. I don't know how he'll react to an angel without wings."

Dean glanced over at Castiel. Just a day ago, the angel had told him he found losing his wings to be easy, but now. Now he'd had to deal with the handicaps, the irritations, the mortality. Castiel looked away and Dean cleared his throat.

"But it's a council now, right? Not just Gordon making the decisions?"

"I said that my mom's trying. I mean, Central's a mess with Michael missing, but that doesn't mean she can just instate a new regime while no one's looking," Jo crossed her arms to mirror Dean. It looked petulant on her. He lowered his arms to his side.

"Okay, then how long before she can get it running?"

"I don't know. I'd have to ask her. Maybe a day or two?"

Cas caught his eye and deflated a little. "I'll wait until tomorrow." The words untied a knot that had formed in Dean's stomach and he gave the angel a half-hearted smile.

"I believe I have to relieve myself," Castiel said coolly and walked away from their little group. Dean looked around the circle of light again. Each of them was cast in an eerie yellow glow from the single lantern at the center. One person was missing though.

"Did you leave Zachariah behind, too?"

Uriel stared hard at him and said matter-of-factly, "Zachariah is dead."

Dean was irrationally happy that Cas wasn't there to hear about it.

"Don't tell him, okay?" Dean asked, glancing around at each of them.

"Wasn't going to," Balthazar assured him.

"That's good." Dean nodded to himself. No reason to worry Cas further. Dean was worrying enough for the lot of them.


End file.
